


5-The Sweet Science of Bruising

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 2, Trials and Errors [5]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-09-29
Updated: 2000-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:51:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan reaches a turning point in his training, with consequences for Qui-Gon and Bruck, as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5-The Sweet Science of Bruising

**Author's Note:**

> It squicked Kirby! Dark. Dark. Dark. Oh, very dark. Nasty. Rape, torture, some borderline non-con. Worse, excretions! Not pretty. Beware. Don't go here if you don't like seeing any of the Boyz hurt. Here be Dragons. Abandon all hope, etc. Really! I'm not kidding . . . 
> 
> The title is a quotation from a Smithsonian magazine article about collegiate boxing, which I loathe as a sport, pro or amateur.
> 
> This story is as much Kath Moonshine's as mine, at least the ideas, though the prose is mine. If not for her willingness to gnaw on this particularly tough bone, sharing her wide reading in the training tactics of special forces personnel and prodding me to look into the dark and nasty corners, I'd have never gotten to the marrow of this story. So blame the errors on me, and the verisimilitude on her.
> 
> This story takes place about two years into Obi-Wan & Qui-Gon's relationship.

Qui-Gon went down first, like a felled tree, as though someone had struck him invisibly from behind, his consciousness switching off in a flare of light through their bond.

Almost before Obi-Wan had time to register this fact, they were on him, literally dropping from the trees in the park he and Qui-Gon had cut through on their way home from a very pleasant dinner. He had no time to think about anything—not why neither he nor Qui-Gon had sensed them, not why they would be attacked here on Coruscant, not who would dare jump two Jedi on what was nearly home territory—no time to think or do anything but defend himself and his fallen master. Already, their attackers were right there in his face, closer than an arm’s reach away, so close in that his lightsaber was unreachable, dangling uselessly from his utility belt and slapping his thigh as he leapt and spun and kicked out, foot landing solidly in somebody’s face. An iron-like claw on the end of an equally strong arm clamped onto his ankle and tipped him backwards into the dust. He landed hard, slapping the hard-packed dirt beneath the leafy shadows, breath whoofing out of him, but still managed to grab the offending arm and yank, using his own and his attacker’s momentum, both feet, and the Force to propel his attacker over his head, hearing a satisfying, bonecrushing thud half a meter away and feeling the impact vibrating through the ground. Big. They were all big and there were a number of them.

Obi-Wan rolled back onto his shoulders slightly and then kicked out, propelling himself forward and upright onto the balls of his feet, flinging another attacker into a tree trunk with the Force as he landed. He tripped another off his feet with a sweeping sidekick and Force-shove that put him out of reach and had his hand on his saber when the stars exploded in his head.

They never let him get up again. Dimly, he felt a solid kick land in his ribs, felt one snap, and tried to roll to protect it. Another hard boot found his stomach, doubling him over. Two more landed in the region of his kidneys. Another found his crotch. He vomited into the dirt and the fight was over then. Someone snapped a collar around his neck and the Force went dead in him. They pulled his arms back, locked them together at his elbows so they nearly met, snapping binders on his wrists and ankles and above his knees as well. The last thing he knew was a fist crashing down into his face.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve got him secured now?”

“Yes, more or less as planned. The boy’s broken Toff’s knee.”

Grim smile. “He’s learned his lessons well.”

“Yes. If he’d gotten to his weapon it would have turned out quite differently, and he very nearly did. The holo’s . . . instructional. You’ll have to watch it. We certainly will.”

“Afterwards. Get on with it. Sooner done the better.”

“You’re too soft for this job.” Contemptuously. “Makes me wonder how you do your own.”

Mild amusement, milder annoyance. “Just get on with it. We don’t pay you for your opinions.”

 

* * *

 

In the training salles, trembling with fatigue after a long session, watching the Combat Master spray bacta over and into a long slash opened along his ribs with a knife, one he was not even aware of until the bout had stopped and he saw the blood:

“There are several different kinds of pain, Padawan. Each have their own character and present their own unique problems in dealing with them, whether or not you are able to use the Force. For instance, there is the acute pain of a new injury such as a blaster or stab wound. You may not feel it at first—like this one—in the middle of a fight when your body is full of endorphins, depending on how bad it is. But sometimes it can stop you in your tracks, and that is something you cannot afford. Sometimes your reflexes, the ones built into you to avoid pain, are too strong to circumvent, so you must learn how to move with them, use them to your advantage. Sometimes, even that is impossible. . . .”

 

* * *

 

They brought him around with nothing more sophisticated than a bucket of cold water. For a moment he just lay gasping on the stone floor, then struggled to gather his wits about him, strangely logy and slow. He was lying on his side, trussed with metal binders at ankles, wrists, elbows, and knees. There was a surge of panic when he realized he couldn’t feel the Force, then he remembered the collar someone had put on him. He coughed and snorted then grunted as his ribs and back and head flared into hotspots of pain that settled into steady throbbing. Blinking through the water, he turned his head with effort and looked up. . . .

Yes, they were very large. There were three of them, now, where there had been six before. Had he injured the others? He could only hope. Not that it mattered. These three were more than enough to try to get through in his shape: a Devaronian female, a Wookiee of indeterminate gender, and—smallest of the three—a human male as big as Qui-Gon.

The room he was in was large, too, but seemed small with the three of them in it: windowless permacrete walls, floor and ceiling, a drain in the middle of it, something that looked ominously like a large metal altar, bristling with adjustable binders and restraints but nothing loose that he could possible use as a weapon. No way to tell how long he had been out, where he was, what time it was. A single door, metal, no window in it, optical ports in all four corners and directly above, so he was being watched and probably recorded somewhere else. There was no sign of Qui-Gon.

“Where’s my master?” he demanded.

The Wookiee barked a laugh and the Devaronian scowled. The human squatted down beside him. The man had been clean-shaven three or four days ago and might have been handsome once, before the scar running from under one eye to the corner of his mouth had twisted his face so cruelly. The nose had been broken sometime in the past too, several times, and he’d replaced three teeth with diamond implants. Greasy, medium-longish black hair fell into his dark eyes as he bent over Obi-Wan.

“Ye’ve gravely disappointed Shilar, lad,” the man drawled in a thick Carrati accent. “She bet the Wookiee that the first words oot uv yer mawth’d be ‘Where’s ma clothes?’ Ah tried t’tell ‘er yew Jedi don’t care mich aboot sich, but she’d no lissen t’me.”

Obi-Wan suddenly realized they’d stripped him while he’d been unconscious. The stone floor abruptly felt much colder, and the water didn’t help. He also felt strangely naked in front of this man as he wouldn’t normally. Not naked. Vulnerable. And afraid. Naked, it was so much easier to do certain . . . things. Things he didn’t much care to think about.

“‘N that master e’yers—not t’worrit yersel’ on him. ‘E’s well taken care uv. Ah can see why e’d worrit aboot ye, tho.” The man reached out and pinched his thigh, hard, making Obi-Wan jerk back. “Not mich meat on ye, an’ what is, is tough as old bantha. ‘Cept this,” he grinned, flashing the sparkling teeth, one huge mitt cupping Obi-Wan’s cock and balls, squeezing. He gasped, still bruised and tender from the kick he’d gotten there. “‘N’ that’s quite a piece. Ah’ll bet this is hard enoof when ‘e wants it, eh?”

Obi-Wan made a successful effort not to flinch, meeting the man’s gaze squarely. “What do you want?”

“Frum ye? Na mich. A good scream or two. Ye see, we know ha fond yer master is o ye, an we know ha hard tis t’break a groon Jedi. Bit one like ye—diff’rent na, isn’t it, little one?”

“I’ll tell you nothing.”

“We’ll no ask ye neether. Bit if we hurt ye, what sez the master then?”

Obi-Wan’s heart sank. He couldn’t feel their bond, but unless Qui-Gon were similarly collared, he’d feel everything through it. And it would be worse because he’d have to feel Obi-Wan suffering—worse for both of them to know they were hurting each other. Well, he’d just have to bear up. He knew Qui-Gon could be stubborn and implacable and only hoped that wouldn’t change. Whatever this gang of toughs wanted to know, neither of them would reveal it. At worst, there was always death, and there was no death, only the Force.

 

* * *

 

“You’re certain there’s no concussion?

“Yes. He’s pretty uncomfortable, but he’s probably been thumped on Jedi training floors this hard. He’s ready. You’ll be watching?”

“Of course. Very closely.” Warningly: “I don’t want him marked permanently.”

“We know our business.” Smirk. “Besides, it looks like he already has been.”

“See you don’t forget that detail.”

 

* * *

 

Leaning over his master’s knees, his back on fire, loving hands flaying his skin away in tiny increments with a vibro-blade:

Remember this pain. Breathe. Embrace it. Breathe. Sink into it. Breathe. Become it. Just breathe . . . You’ll need this someday.

 

* * *

 

The Wookiee and Devaronian came forward to hold him down at ankles and shoulders while the Carrati fiddled with the binders at his knees. In a moment he felt them spread apart and braced with a rigid metal dowel. A short chain was attached to the ring in the center of the dowel and this was then clipped to the metal collar around his neck, so he could not straighten his legs without pulling on it. With his elbows high behind his back, ankles locked together, and knees bent and spread this way, he knew there was no position he’d be lying in except on his side, and his range of movement was very limited. The odd position left his genitals much more unprotected than he liked as well.

The Carrati stepped back and held out his hand, not taking his eyes off Obi-Wan even when the Wookiee placed a long, thin metal wand in his hand. “Ye fought se pretty, little one. Lessee ye squirm na.”

Obi-Wan grunted softly at the first hit, more surprised than hurt by the shock as the prodstick connected with his ass. The second hit, higher up on his hip, was not surprising at all, and only hurt for a moment, and he was almost relieved they’d moved away from his genitals. He thought the settings on the stick—something usually used to control unruly crowds and livestock—must be very low. He’d gotten worse shocks fixing circuits. The third one upped the ante significantly, landing in the V of flesh above the cleft of his ass. He jerked away too hard, his broken rib prodding him painfully and the collar biting into his neck. He broke into a sweat despite himself. Too close. But he remained silent, then wondered if that were such a good strategy in this instance. If he were too stoic, they would only hurt him more, but it wouldn’t do to show weakness too soon or they would realize he was faking. Another hit, this one stronger yet, landed on his abused ribs. He hissed at the double pain but stayed relatively still this time.

The Devaronian female stepped up then, holding another prodstick, and jammed it into his belly. Hers was set significantly higher and made him gasp and curl up protectively. A moment later, the Carrati hit him from behind in the small of his back, the reflex movement sending him back into the prodstick in front, which ground into his navel. They played him back and forth for several minutes, making him squirm on the cold, wet floor and eliciting more stifled grunts, but no one seemed particularly amused.

His two torturers went about their task in a very business-like manner for what he had taken for a gang of toughs. Not that he had much time to process that observation. The hits were falling faster now and were significantly higher in voltage. They concentrated on his joints for a time, prodding elbows and knees mostly, making them flex involuntarily against the binders, rubbing his flesh raw. Each jab pulled a gasp or cry from him, and they left a hard ache behind, but the indignity of helplessness bothered him more than the pain. He had just decided to ride this out rather than waste his efforts dampening the pain for something relatively mild, when the Devaronian’s stick arced against one of his nipples.

Obi-Wan shouted in outraged surprise and pain.

The shock made his whole body contort as though he’d been struck by lightning, and again, as she hit the opposite one. He yelled again and rocked away, or tried to, but with his elbows pulled together and knees spread it was impossible to get leverage. She jabbed him again in each nipple in quick succession and the pain tore through him, grounding in the back of his skull and his genitals, making him twitch and jerk.

Then the Carrati hit his balls.

Obi-Wan screamed. The sound reverberated off the walls, filling him, like the agony, with something he’d never be able to describe because it was like nothing that had ever happened to him, nothing he’d ever felt. He’d been kicked in the balls before, with and without a cup. This was nothing like it. Even a saber burn was nothing like this. Perhaps filling his scrotum with broken glass and squeezing would begin to describe it. He couldn’t stop screaming, even when he ran out of breath, but something happened then, in his head. He lay rigid with his mouth wide open as though mimicking a scream, and seemed to step outside himself and stand just off to the side, watching with strange detachment a figure that looked very much like himself. He felt nothing. The Carrati shoved the prodstick between the figure’s legs again and he watched in revulsion as all its sphincters gave way and that horrible sound came out of it again, impossibly high, followed by sobbing. The smell of shit and urine and semen was suddenly thick in the air. The Wookiee wrinkled its nose in disgust, made a chopping motion with one hand.

Then he was in that body again, the pain fading but leaving him sick and shaky and weak. He’d never heard anyone scream like that, didn’t believe it was possible, didn’t believe he’d done it. The stench gagged him and he was mortally ashamed to be covered in his own excrement. At least Qui-Gon couldn’t—

“Master,” he whispered, horrified, shaking. Qui-Gon would know everything through their bond, whether Obi-Wan could sense him or not. Everything.

The Carrati leaned over him, yanked him up by his braid until they were so close he could smell the man’s breath, which was surprisingly sweet. “A raht good show, lad. Ah’m sure yer master appreciated it, too. If only he could smell ye, az well. P’raps ye’d like to help us aut so we need na encore. Jes’ tell us the Jedi Temple security codes. It’d save ye both a mite a pain.”

“No,” he gritted, trying to control his gasping. His arms and legs were cramping now that he’d been confined for so long in such an uncomfortable posture.

“Az ye like,” the Carrati shrugged. He stood up again and backed away a little, swinging the prodstick into view. He heard someone come up behind him and the Wookiee growl something about hosing him off.

“Na, let ‘im rool aboot an his oon stink a bit. If yer nose is too delicate, there’s no need fer ye ‘ere. Off wit ye. Shilar an m’sel’ll keep ‘im compny.”

He heard an inarticulate growl, the opening and closing of the door and knew the Wookiee was gone. He couldn’t stand the stink himself and wished he could follow. But there was one less in the room, and he was still in relatively good shape. One less, if he could just think of a way out of these—

The Carrati hit Obi-Wan with the prodstick again, this time set much higher, or so it seemed after the brief respite and it made him scream again. It tore along his nerves, pain blossoming outward from wherever they hit him. He writhed in the puddles of excrement, thoroughly smearing it almost everywhere. He started to count the hits as a way of distracting himself, then must have breathed out a number without knowing it because it stopped abruptly and the Carrati was squatting beside him.

“Ha’ ye sumthin t’say t’me?”

“Thirty-eight,” Obi-Wan panted.

“Thirty-eight what? Ye’ll ‘ve t’be a bit moor specific.”

“Thirty-eight . . . hits,” he grinned. “Been . . . counting.”

The Carrati stood again and kicked him so he doubled over, gasping, would have vomited if there’d been anything in his stomach. “Stupid git,” the man growled. Obi-Wan heard a click and screamed louder when the prodstick touched him this time, the charge more powerful, the tender skin between the cleft of his ass more sensitive than others. “Should Ah shove it up yer arse, lad? Could ye count ‘em then?” His sphincter muscles pulsed tight in pain and fear. _Stupid, stupid,_ he agreed silently, waiting for another jolt.

Instead, the Carrati withdrew, wiped the shit coating the prodstick off under Obi-Wan’s chin and hit him again in his lower back. The stick was still set high, and that close to his spine it lit up every nerve in his body. He screamed again, jerking back, nearly broke his own neck against the collar and chain.

And then they stopped. “We’ll let yer master an’ ye think on this a bit noo,” the Carrati said and hit him once more in the ass, making him jerk hard and hurt his neck again.

Obi-Wan hardly had enough consciousness for thinking, by the time they left him alone, almost immovably trussed, aching, parched, wrists and ankles and knees rubbed raw against the restraints, neck just as raw and deeply bruised, covered in his own excrement. But they hadn’t raped him. Almost, at his own stupid provocation, but not yet. That had to be some kind of victory. That and the fact that he’d told them nothing, that he hadn’t whined and begged. Screamed, yes. His throat was raw with it. But he hadn’t begged. That might make it easier on his master. He’d know Obi-Wan was holding out all right so far.

He caught his breath, finally, his heart slowing, and closed his eyes and tried to sleep, something that seemed nearly impossible given the position they’d left him in and the stench. And his thirst. Normally, he’d draw on the Force and conserve what fluids he could at this point by slowing his metabolism, but that wasn’t an option with this cursed collar around his neck. He could, however, still meditate and calm himself, and get what rest he could. It took some concentration to ignore everything but he did, at last, helped by the odorless gas that tainted the air in his cell and sent him into a deep oblivion.

 

* * *

 

“He’s done well, so far.” Grudging admiration.

“Yes.” Curt. “Get on with the rest of it. I want it over with.”

 

* * *

 

Wrapped in his cloak beside Qui-Gon, waiting for their transport at a barren outpost; a small fire, food roasting in the ashes and embers; a coal sizzling for a moment in Qui-Gon’s palm before he drops it, leaving an angry red spot and the stench of burned flesh that fades even as he watches:

“Pain is a very subjective thing, Padawan. Whatever hurts badly at the moment seems to be the worst pain of all, ever: toothache, migraine, back injury, pulled muscle. Yet it all comes in very different flavors: sharp, dull; throbbing, constant; localized, general; burn or ache. Stranger yet, what I feel as minor may seem crippling to you, and vice versa. Pain is very personal. In the right hands, it can be tailored, like clothing.”

 

* * *

 

He woke screaming this time. There was no building up to it, only the two states, off and on. First there was sweet unconsciousness and then there was agony. He could feel it spreading through his body like liquid fire, as though they had injected him with some poisonous chemical that was slowly eating away his tissues—and perhaps they had. There was no way of knowing, cut off from the Force as he was. He wondered how long it would take him to die.

Not long, he hoped.

Just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Every muscle that had been rigid and flexed went limp. Beneath him was the cold stone floor, wetter now than before. Like himself, it had been sluiced down while he was unconscious, and though he was still naked and the skin over his joints still raw from the restraints, at least he was clean again.

“Tell me where it ‘urts ye, lad,” the Carrati said, squatting on his heels beside Obi-Wan.

“No.” _Allow yourself one word or phrase to use in replying to your captors,_ all the training manuals and instructors had said. “No” seemed like a good choice. He’d been such a fool the last time that it seemed wiser to keep his mouth shut as much as possible.

“‘Ere?” The Carrati insisted, stroking one bare thigh and grinning.

Obi-Wan said nothing. A moment later, he lit up like a torch, screaming again. Fire, on fire, everything, every centimeter was burning, burning . . .

“Yes!” he screamed. “Yes!” Sobbing. The pain stopped. Obi-Wan collapsed onto his back, realizing dimly that all the binders were gone. All that remained was the Force collar around his neck. The Carrati was holding a small hand control and watching him come to the expected conclusion, not half a meter distant.

“Ah’d think twice, lad. Yer no half az fast as ye wuz a bit ago. Ah’ve only to move m’thumb—”

Obi-Wan lunged, was not even half launched before he went up in a bonfire of agony and dropped to the floor once again, writhing and screaming. It wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, burning, fire, agony, blazing through every limb— Some dim part of him wondered why there wasn’t any smoke.

Again it stopped almost instantaneously, leaving him gasping, drenched in sweat, weak, dizzy, sick. “What . . . ?” he heard himself moan.

“Nanites,” the Carrati told him. “Latch on t’yer pain receptors an give ‘em a wee jolt when Ah tell ‘em. Controller’s range is 500 meters. I cud roll over on’t in ma sleep an’ ye’d be dead in twenty minutes. Be a shame, that. So whut’re the Temple’s secur’ty codes, lad?”

“Ask my master.” Mistake. Mistake. Don’t talk.

The Carrati pounced on him, knee grinding into his back, and yanked Obi-Wan’s head up by his tail, arching his back and neck painfully. The raw skin chafed painfully beneath the collar. It seemed laughably small in comparison to what he’d just endured.

“Yer master’s dead, little one,” he snarled. “Speak up noo, ‘fore ye join ‘im.”

“Don’t believe you,” Obi-Wan gasped, fear lancing through his heart. _Not Qui—_

“No? ‘Ere, then. ‘Ave a look. ‘Ad a merry time, too, ‘fore ‘e died.” The weight left his back and a flat holo dropped to the floor beside him. He reached for it with unsteady hands, couldn’t at first make out what it showed, splotches of red, black, a ghostly white blurring together, as though it had been taken in bad light. He blinked and it resolved itself, sprang out at him like a puzzle. The red splotches, blood, on the floor, staining the white skin, running in rivulets, pooling, puddling, distorting features—

“No,” he whispered. “You said—”

“Died in ‘is own stink an’ shit—like ye will,” the man repeated, yanking his head up again. “Tell me.”

“No,” Obi-Wan said again, setting his jaw stubbornly and anticipating the pain. Even so, he wasn’t ready when it roared through him again like a wildfire, blossoming all at once, everywhere. Time died. Light died. The universe shrank to the size and shape of his body and there was nothing but agony in it.

That awful shriek came out of him again, the one that sounded like nothing human, nothing sentient at all. He felt it in his bones, coupling with the burning that was surely stripping his flesh away, lifting him out of his body. This time he seemed somewhere above it, watching the Carrati crouched near him like some kind of scavenger waiting for him to die. Maybe that’s what was happening now. It didn’t seem possible that anything living could bear pain like that for long. He hardly recognized himself, his face was so contorted with it, body thrashing almost convulsively.

And the sound—gods! Piercing. Horrible. He wondered, oddly, what Qui-Gon would think, perhaps was thinking. “Sometimes you sound like you’re in pain, love, when you come,” his lover had told him once after a particularly satisfying climax, “as though I were torturing you instead of making love to you.” “It is torture,” he’d replied, laughing, “because I can’t get enough of you.” What a fool he’d been. And Qui was dead, wasn’t he? No . . . please, no . . .

Again the pain stopped and he dropped back into his tormented flesh like a fallen angel, pricks and cramps prodding his muscles like some ancient depiction of hell where demons pierced the damned. His personal demon grinned toothily at him, diamonds flashing. Obi-Wan wanted to make him swallow those teeth.

“Lovely voice ye’ve got, lad. Will ye sing me ‘nuther song like this ‘un? Er gimme th’ codes? Yer young ‘n’ strong. Ye’ll last a long while yet—unlike yer master.”

“Fuck you,” Obi-Wan gasped, blind with tears, pain, grief, rage.

The Carrati smiled again. “Oh, Ah’ll get t’that lad. No fear.”

 

* * *

 

“Very sophisticated.” Sarcastically.

“We try.” Falsely modest.

“What next?” A bitter undertone.

“We’ll let him live with this for a while. The rest depends on him. Most don’t last much longer than this stage. He’s tougher than he looks. Ashrin did make him a promise though. And he hates to break one. . . .”

The silence was more eloquent than speech could possibly be.

 

* * *

 

In their bed, meditating, or trying to, seeing the possible futures spreading out before him, one of which is a pyre; Qui-Gon’s voice soothing him afterwards, Qui-Gon’s warm, strong arms holding him:

“Don’t think how much it will hurt then, Padawan. You can’t truly know without experiencing it, and imagination always makes it worse than it ever could be. Live in the moment. Live here with me, now.”

 

* * *

 

The Carrati was gone, taking the controller with him but staying somewhere still within range, leaving it set much lower so he hurt everywhere and enough that he would have asked for painkillers or had to use the Force to control it, were either option open to him. At least he wasn’t bound again, though no amount of trying would pry the collar off. But he was cold too, shaking, in pain, trying to breathe through it as he had at other times, with some success. If it were not so all-pervasive it would have been easier.

After a while, he found his focus drifting, too exhausted to keep it sharp, to make himself breathe easily, relax, think of something else. It wore him down until it was the only thing in his mind, until the physical pain of the nanites meshed with the pain in his heart.

That was part of his problem. He couldn’t keep that image from his head: how badly they’d beaten his master, how much blood there had been, how much he must have suffered before—

_Can’t be true. Can’t be true,_ he told himself. _Can’t. Can’t. Can’t._

Because that hurt far more than anything in this hell hole that had made him scream.

“Qui,” he whispered over and over, a chant, a litany, a prayer, something to keep him safe, to keep him focused, to keep him alive until he knew for certain. Without their bond in the Force, there was no way of knowing if Qui-Gon were truly dead. Until he held the body in his arms . . .

Faked. The holo was faked. He was certain of it. Qui-Gon would have become one with the Force if he were truly dead. There would be nothing to show, no body at all. Not even a Force-inhibiting collar would have stopped that.

It was the only hope he had.

Counting his breaths and focusing on that and nothing else, he fell into some state not quite sleep, not quite waking, comfortably removed from pain and cold and misery. He saw himself curled on his side, teeth chattering, body shivering, the pain an almost visible aura of red in the dark cell, and drifted away into a pleasant, detached numbness. He was two entities now, spirit and flesh, and only his flesh suffered. _Luminous beings are we,_ Master Yoda was fond of saying. He felt luminous, weightless, powerful, full of light. He knelt beside himself, stroked his own cheek, felt kind fingers there and wondered whose they were, imagined they were his lover’s, picking him up, stretching his arms out over his head, bending him over the table—

Someone shoved a large metal ball in his mouth, held it there with elastic cord that cut into his face. He fought and jerked away, found his wrists in binders again, over his head, and spread wide with the same kind of metal bar that had spread his knees earlier. Another of the binders on his ankles spread his legs, leaving him wide open and vulnerable again. He was bent over some hard surface, feet a little off the floor but clamped by the metal bar against the side of the whatever he lay on, as his spread arms were clamped to the top. Then he came fully awake and realized where he was, a thrill of fear running through him: He was locked down against the metal “altar” he’d seen earlier, held immobile by any of a number of restraints soldered to its face, no matter what happened. And there was no question what was happening, only of how long it would last, and whether it would tear him apart.

Something large and hard and cold was shoved into his rectum none too gently, penetrating deeply, filling him the way Qui-Gon did. He felt a strap run between his legs up the cleft in his ass, pulled tight against the delicate skin of his perineum then to one side of his balls and cock, buckled too snugly into a strap at his waist, cutting into him. A big hand squeezed and stroked his cock until he was aching, and the familiar voice growled in his ear. “Ah’ll gie ye a choice, lad. Ye can hae meself or settle fer th’less personal touch a this bit a’ magic wand.”

He knew somehow it was no choice at all, only bad or worse, but instinct told him flesh and blood was better than not.

“So ye c’n make a fair choice, Ah’ll gie ye a taste a’ th’ one, first.”

A bolt of lightning arced through Obi-Wan’s body, from mouth to anus; he was certain he could feel it traverse every coil and loop of his intestines, arcing further through his kidneys and bladder, down his urethra. Once again, he voided everything in a paroxysm of agony, the cylinder pushing outward and only kept in place by the straps. Once again he was sluiced down, the ball removed from his mouth. Just barely, he kept his stomach under control and lay shivering and wet on the cold platform, cock at half mast. He wasn’t sure if the nanites were still active or if the overall ache was merely his strained muscles. Tears trickled across his face, pooling in his eye socket, under his cheek.

“Na, tell me which ye’d like, lad.”

“Go to hell,” Obi-Wan whispered.

He nearly gagged on the ball, fighting, and every muscle convulsed as lightning tore through him again. It seemed to go on much longer this time, until he jerked so hard that he banged his head against the hard metal of the platform. Then it stopped, as though they didn’t want to physically injure him. When the ball was pulled from his mouth he was still screaming and bucking against the restraints, though the charge itself had stopped. A moment latter, he collapsed, sobbing, against the platform.

“Made yer choice, lad?”

Obi-Wan nodded, still sobbing.

“Tell me.”

“You,” he gasped.

“Is it me ye want?” the Carrati said, in mock surprise. “My cock up yer arse? Ye shock me, lad. Ah wuz sure ye’d like this wee toy,” he mocked, unbuckling the straps and pulling out the metal cylinder. “It’s made ye hard ‘nuff.” The rough, calloused hand—so like Qui-Gon’s and yet not—reached beneath him and stroked him stiffer. “Are ye sure?”

Obi-Wan nodded.

“Then tell me so.”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t say it.

The Carrati grabbed his tail, yanked his head back painfully.

“Remember whut ye said when I ast yer nice? Tell me.” He bent Obi-Wan’s head back painfully until he thought his neck might break.

“‘Fuck you,’” he choked, panicked.

“Aye. So whut is’t ye want noo? Whut sh’d Ah do?”

“Fuck me,” Obi-Wan whispered, sickened. He wanted it over with. It wasn’t worth the fight any more.

“That’s not ha’ ye said it t’yer master noo, is’t? Say ‘please.’”

“Please fuck me.” It didn’t sound like his own voice.

“Louder. Make’t sound like ye mean it.” He could hear the man fumbling with his clothing now, the sound of a belt being undone, fasteners popping, fabric rustling.

“Please, fuck me,” he mumbled.

“Mean it! Like ye mean it!” The Carrati’s hand fisted in his hair, yanked.

“Please—fuck me. Fuck me.” Obi-Wan moaned. Not his voice, not his words, not his mouth, not his tongue. Not him. Not doing this. Not saying this. Not his ass those hard hands were opening, that impersonal, brutal, hard cock was shoving into, tearing into, pounding into. Not his nerves screaming with the residuals of the shocks he’d been given, the nanites still gnawing at him. Not his own cock hardening again, not his testicles drawing up tight in his scrotum. Not him coming. Not him screaming, “Please! Please! Please!” Not him not knowing what he was pleading for.

Not Qui-Gon fucking him, not Bruck filling him, but something better.

Better. Oh gods. He’d come, hard, gloriously, the top of his head lifting right off it seemed, buoyed by the pain, remembered and present. It didn’t matter. Oh gods, he’d never come like that, almost as strong as the spasms that had made him shit and piss himself. Nothing would ever feel like this again.

And he hated this man for teaching him that.

 

* * *

 

“That’s enough.”

“He hasn’t broken yet.” Coolly.

“Close enough. You’ll still be paid.”

“It’s not in the contract.”

“I said that’s enough! Do you want him to kill your man? He will.”

“I doubt it.” Knowing smirk. “We haven’t lost an agent yet in one of these little exercises. He’s only a boy, and Ashrin’s one of the best.”

“Don’t say you weren’t warned.” In a growl.

 

* * *

 

A dirty slaver’s hall where he stood naked, bent over, holding himself open while a slaver shoved two fingers up his ass; telling himself it was Qui-Gon’s hands doing this, that there’d be more to come someday, the way he wanted it:

There is no passion; there is serenity.

 

* * *

 

He’d stopped crying now. It didn’t serve any purpose, and besides, it was all over. The big Carrati had shuddered and come inside him, then shoved his surprisingly small, limp cock in Obi-Wan’s mouth to suck and lick clean. He’d thought briefly about biting it off, but before he could he’d tasted his own shit, gagged, vomited, spattering his rapist with bile and fluid. The man had cursed him and cuffed his head and the opportunity was lost. But then his captor made his fatal mistake.

Intending to turn him over, “so Ah c’n see yer face this time,” he loosed the bar holding Obi-Wan’s arms clamped to the platform. The long hours he’d spent stretching his spine in backbends and walkovers paid off in this one moment as he reared up, caught the Carrati across the back of his neck with the bar separating his wrists, and smashed the man’s head down on the platform in front of him. Vertebrae shattered with a noise like branches splitting and the man went limp.

“You piece of shit!” Obi-Wan snarled and began to cry again.

 

* * *

 

Some days later, he sat tucked up in the window seat in his room in the Healers’ Halls, where he’d been since being allowed out of bed the previous day. His injuries were healed now, at least those the scans and instruments could detect and the bacta could reach, but he felt broken inside, in a way he couldn’t explain, even to his friends. They had all come to visit—Bant, Norika, Garen, Tianna, Bruck—all his closest yearmates who were in Temple, some of the younger ones he’d befriended or taught, so many he’d finally had to ask them all to leave him alone. He knew they meant well, that they were only trying to cheer him up, to make him feel better, but it was just intolerable. They wanted him to smile, to be his old self again, to make jokes, and he couldn’t. They didn’t see he was someone different now, or how he’d changed.

In some ways, it was like it had been after he’d killed for the first time. Then, as now, he’d crossed some border into another land that barred him from ever going back again. He knew what he’d lost then had been his innocence, his idealism that the Jedi killed only to protect others or in self-defense. That was still true; no real Jedi took a life for any other reason but those two. But until he’d done it, he had always thought that ideal protected the killer somehow from the attendant guilt and sadness, and he’d discovered it didn’t, nor was it supposed to. It would always hurt. He would always wonder if it could have been avoided.

Except this time.

This time, he felt no regrets. This time, he felt utterly justified, utterly unsympathetic, utterly guiltless. Even though it had been a horrible mistake.

The door chimed softly and Obi-Wan’s heart thumped painfully for a moment. He was easily startled these days, jumpy and moody and not sleeping well. All perfectly normal, the healers told him. Post-trauma stress. It would pass, if he would not bottle it all up inside, talk about what he was feeling, release some of it to the Force when he meditated. When he meditated. That was a laugh. As if he could meditate.

For a moment, he wondered if whomever it was would just go away if he failed to answer. Then the door chimed again and he knew it was pointless to feign sleep when he was sitting in the same place he had been for the last eighteen hours.

“Come,” he said quietly, then scrambled to his feet and bowed as his visitor entered. “Master Windu.”

“Sit, sit, Obi-Wan. It’s not a formal visit. I just came to see how you were feeling.”

“Well enough. I was told I can go ho— go back—” he choked, eyes tearing. “Shit,” he muttered, wiping his eyes, not caring it was a councillor who sat in his room listening to him curse and stutter.

“You have quarters to go to?” Windu said gently.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re certain—”

“Yes! I can’t— I can’t go back there right now. I don’t want—”

“I understand, Padawan.”

_No you fucking don’t,_ Obi-Wan thought. _None of you do._ What he said aloud was the customary humble padawan “Thank you,” and hated himself for it.

Windu gave him a sharp look that told Obi-Wan he’d either been broadcasting or the Councillor wasn’t fooled by his facade. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

“I also wanted to tell you that you did well,” Windu went on.

Although it surprised him, he found it difficult to muster an enthusiastic response of any sort. “Thank you, Master Windu,” he replied dully.

“The fact that you didn’t break before—”

“Please! Please, just— I don’t—” _Just shut up. I don’t care. I don’t want to hear how brilliant I was. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t give a damn._ He’d never wanted to say anything as badly as he wanted to say those words to Mace Windu. To the full Council. Most of all to his own master.

“Don’t what?” Windu asked him quietly, seeming to again sense what he’d been thinking.

“I don’t fucking care!” he shouted, everything he’d been holding inside since waking up here five days ago spewing out. “And don’t sit there and tell me some story about what it was like when you went through it. Don’t offer me advice. Don’t sympathize. Don’t be understanding and patient. Don’t tell me it’s going to be all right. Just leave me the hell alone!”

“May I apologize, Padawan?” Windu asked respectfully after giving Obi-wan a few moments to collect himself.

“I don’t want that, either,” he said bitterly. “I don’t want anything from any of you. It’s not enough, whatever it is.”

“No, it’s not,” Windu agreed. “But it’s all any of us can offer you besides love and support. Remember you have all of those things from all of us, Obi-Wan.” The door closed softly behind the Councillor.

“Fuck you too,” Obi-Wan choked after he was gone.

 

* * *

 

“Did you see him?”

“Yes. Physically, he’s fine. Emotionally, he has a great deal of healing to do. In some ways, it would be better if we weren’t able to fix the physical problems so quickly. It would give the mind time to catch up. And it would have been better, probably, if he’d broken.”

“Has he said anything . . . ?”

“No. He won’t talk about it. Won’t see anyone.” A pause. “I’m sorry, old friend. It’s not usually this hard, or this bad. You know that.”

“I should have stopped it sooner—or let it go on.”

“You did what you thought was best.”

Harsh sigh, anguish underneath. “Sometimes I’m wrong.”

 

* * *

 

Early morning, neither he nor Bruck quite awake after a night they hadn’t intended, sleepily touching one another, rekindling desire they’d both thought slaked in the night:

“How can it feel so good to be with you and still hurt at the same time?”

 

* * *

 

He fled to the only place he knew that seemed safe, to Bruck’s quarters. It was familiar enough to be comforting, distant enough from his own to be a refuge, different enough to be free of painful associations. Obi-wan stopped just inside the door and looked around.

“Are you sure it’s all right?” he said to the young man beside him. “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“No, it’s fine, really, Ben. I know Master Rallin won’t mind. He wouldn’t even if he weren’t off on a solo mission for the next three tenths.” Bruck paused, touched his friend’s shoulder, felt him shudder briefly. “I got your stuff from your quarters. It’s in my room. Listen, I thought you could have my bed and I’d sleep on the couch, unless . . .”

“I don’t know, Bruck. I don’t know if I can—”

“I didn’t mean we’d do anything. I just didn’t know whether you’d want another warm body that close or not. It’s up to you. I’ve spent enough time on the couch that it doesn’t bother me, one way or the other.”

“It’s just . . . I’m not sleeping very well.”

“Your call, Ben. I won’t be hurt either way—no matter how many times you change your mind.”

“Thanks,” Obi-Wan said, and meant it this time. “I think—I think I could use the company. If it gets too awful, I’ll take myself off to the couch and let you sleep.”

It was a perk that Bruck’s master was on a sensitive solo mission, leaving his apprentice on his own. It would have been too hard to contend with one of Qui-Gon’s friends keeping an eye on him as well, and being the perfect padawan on top of it. He and Bruck had been through enough difficulties together that he knew he needn’t strain himself being polite. He was certainly in no mood for it.

They had dinner together in Bruck’s quarters, Obi-Wan picking at his food as he had for days, eating and saying little. Afterwards, as Bruck studied, Obi-Wan cleaned up and watched a mindless vid that completely failed to engage him but kept him suitably numbed. When Bruck sat down to meditate, Obi-wan declined the invitation to join him, going to the shower instead. There, he let the hot, almost scalding water run over him hoping it might finally make him feel clean again. Even if it did, nothing could make him feel less humiliated than he did, or less betrayed.

He kept coming back to that one instant when everything had changed, when he’d realized that none of what he’d gone through was what it seemed, or at least the reasons for it were not what he’d thought. He’d been fumbling with his leg shackles, still crying, the ones on his wrists opened with the controller he’d found on his torturer’s body when Qui-Gon had been there in the cell suddenly. His master had released the binders from his legs, wrapped him in a blanket and picked him up, all the while snapping at someone he didn’t see who was yelling something about “one of our best agents.” Obi-Wan in his arms, he’d turned to the man and said in a voice that would have frozen hydrogen: “I warned you. I told you to stop the exercise and you disagreed. Consider it just dues for the one of ours you lost last year.”

_Exercise_. It had all been nothing but a fucking exercise. Qui-Gon had been watching all that time. Not dead. Not injured. Not imprisoned at all. Watching. Not just allowing it to happen. Watching.

He crept miserably into the bed beside his some-time lover, like a whipped animal, skin still scorched from the shower. Bruck touched his shoulder, carefully drew him close, waiting for Obi-Wan to pull away or signal somehow that he didn’t want that contact. Instead, he curled himself into Bruck’s embrace and went to sleep in quiet exhaustion. Bruck stayed awake for a time, waiting to see if his friend would thrash himself out of either sleep or contact, then fell asleep himself.

They woke entangled the next morning, Obi-Wan hugging himself but tucked into the crook of one of his lover’s arms, Bruck’s other arm around his waist, their legs entwined so they were facing each other but a little apart. Bruck touched his cheek, stroked his eyebrow with a thumb. “G’morning,” he said. “Either you slept pretty well or I slept a lot harder than I usually do.”

Obi-Wan unfolded himself, then stretched and yawned, blinking blearily. “Mmmm, guess I needed the company,” he said sleepily. “First night I didn’t dream. Thanks,” he said, kissing Bruck’s forehead.

“Want to come to the Scholar’s Garden with me this morning?”

“The Scholar’s Garden?” Obi-Wan’s eyes came open fully, still not quite losing their dreamy, early-morning heavy liddedness. “What put you in the mood to rake gravel?”

“Just don’t feel much like sitting on my butt to meditate this morning, and I wouldn’t mind the company. It’s a nice place to warm up and do a few katas, too.”

“All right,” Obi-Wan replied, less than enthusiastic. “But not right away?”

“‘Course not,” Bruck replied, pulling him closer. “Not very often I get to wake up with you. I’d like to enjoy it.” He stroked a red-gold eyebrow again, trailed slender fingers across Obi-Wan’s cheek, cupped it and kissed him gently. Obi-Wan accepted it gratefully, in its undemanding tenderness, and opened his lips willingly to the tentative touch of Bruck’s tongue against them. Bruck’s hand strayed lightly down Obi-Wan’s arm and over his hip, then more firmly entwined their legs as the kiss went on. Obi-Wan jerked back as Bruck’s hand brushed against his ass.

“Hey, hey, easy,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry, Ben.”

Obi-Wan shook his head, looking a little embarrassed. “It’s all right. I’m just a little, ah . . .”

“Jumpy? Yeah, I was too, for a while. You get over it.”

“What do you mean, you were too?” Obi-Wan said suspiciously.

“I went through this too, a while ago. You and Qui-Gon were off somewhere though, so I was left to my master’s tender mercies—which meant getting my ass pounded out of bed at the usual time every morning after I was out of the Healers Halls.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Obi-Wan demanded.

“Because you hadn’t done it yet. Nobody says anything if you haven’t gone through it. You don’t talk about it with the other padawans or the initiates. It has to be real to be useful. Didn’t Qui— didn’t Master Windu or somebody say something to you about telling?”

Now that Bruck mentioned it, he did vaguely remember his master asking him to say nothing about his experiences. Not that he’d intended to. It wasn’t something he’d wanted to talk about, no matter how much the healers had urged him to, at least with them. Maybe not with anyone, it had been so humiliating. He looked into Bruck’s icy blue eyes, searching for the same anger and hurt he felt, seeing none of it.

“Did you—”

“Did I break? Oh, yeah. Everybody does. I almost set a record though, for somebody who actually passed. I don’t think I lasted longer than about eighteen hours before I was screaming out the security codes, begging to give them away.” He shivered a little and then grinned. “The nanites did me in. All I could think about was these little bugs inside, chewing on my pain receptors. What got you?”

“I didn’t— I killed the inquisitor before—” Obi-Wan mumbled, looking away, feeling ashamed somehow.

He could almost feel Bruck staring at him in shock and surprise. “You what? You killed the Agency guy?” Bruck chortled. “Oh, man, I’ll bet they were pissed. They hate us anyway ‘cause we’re always cleaning up their messes. Nice going, Kenobi. You are some shitkicker.”

“Shut up, Bruck,” he snapped, shoving himself away from the other young man, untangling their legs. “It’s not funny. I was in there going for three fucking days—56 hours, screaming my guts out! Pissing and shitting myself! And it was a joke!”

Bruck reached for him again, caught his arm and wouldn’t let him pull away. “It wasn’t a joke, Ben,” he said, all traces of amusement gone. “It’s dead serious, and you know it. We all need to know what our limits are, how we’ll react when something like this happens to us. I just don’t understand why they pulled you out before you broke. They never do that.”

“And what the hell is the purpose of that?” Obi-Wan demanded. “How is that going to help me be a better Jedi?”

“Well, what were you trying to do when you killed the guy? Get away, right? But how often is that going to happen? Hardly ever. And you can’t fight the pain, so you have to learn what to do with it. Just like I was screaming out the wrong security codes, even when they broke me. They sounded good, and I was real sincere, believe me. But they were the wrong codes. You have to learn how to use it. How to break and still be—” He stopped in midsentence, an odd, undefinable look flashing over his face for a moment, quickly replaced by sympathy. “I’m sorry, Ben. I’ll shut up now,” Bruck said quietly.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said sarcastically, getting up and collecting his clothing to dress in the fresher.

Things were a little cooler between them after that, though they still shared a bed. As they did on vacations, they fell into a later schedule than was either of their masters’ habit, rising late and going to bed in the early morning. Bruck’s days were filled with study and classes and meditation, Obi-Wan’s with hours spent in the gardens, wandering, or thinking, or just sitting numbly, having been excused from duty at Qui-Gon’s request. He found himself eventually spending a great deal of time in the Scholar’s Garden, raking the gravel into precise patterns over and over again, that seeming the only ordered thing in his life. He’d tried to meditate and been unable to, his unquiet mind fixing on memories he preferred to leave unexamined.

And yet he kept hearing Bruck’s surprise that he hadn’t broken, and the undertone of pity that went with it, not understanding either. Surely that was the point, if there was one, not to break, not to give away what he knew. Bruck seemed completely unbothered by the fact that he had buckled in such a short time, and it confused him further that Bruck had managed to break and lie at the same time. He had the terrible feeling that he had failed somehow, and yet he couldn’t understand how.

Worse, the failure had been all too public. He knew now that the entire Council, not just his master, had seen the recordings. Watched him shitting and pissing himself, watched him screaming and sobbing, watched him writhing, watched him come—

That was, somehow, the most unbearable part of it and he shied away from the thought as though it were a painful and unhealed sore.

Eventually, Obi-Wan found himself thawing again, unable to maintain his initial anger against Bruck, and wondering how his friend managed to be so sanguine about an experience that had almost completely undone him. Despite himself, he wanted to know more about Bruck’s pain trials.

“Why don’t you come spar with me tomorrow, Ben?” Bruck said several nights later, as he snuggled himself in next to Obi-Wan in their bed. He touched the other young man’s shoulder tentatively, as though unsure of his welcome, but Obi-Wan sank back against him, molding himself to the curve of his friend’s body. “I might actually be able to beat you, you’ve been away from the salles for so long.”

“All right. I know I should get back to it. Either that or just pack my bags and leave here for good.”

“Been thinking about that?” Bruck said quietly against the back of his neck, lips brushing against the fine hairs there and sliding over his shoulder.

“It’s crossed my mind. Although it doesn’t really seem like an option.”

“Good. Don’t wimp out on me now, Kenobi,” he murmured, kissing the smooth, pale skin.

“Bruck?”

He stopped, hearing the fear in his friend’s voice, slid his hand into Obi-Wan’s.

“Yeah, Ben?”

“Did they . . . in your trial, did anybody . . . fuck you?”

“Rape me, you mean?”

“Yes.” Barely audible.

“No,” he said quietly. “I was all ready for that, since you’re always telling me what a handsome bastard I am. I was going to pretend it was you screwing my brains out. I knew that’d get me through if I could just make it be your cock, your hands, whatever. I’d be fine then. But they didn’t touch me. Instead, they kept threatening to maim me—take an eye or my nose or something—and I wondered . . .”

“What?” Obi-Wan whispered.

“I wondered if you’d still love me.”

Obi-Wan’s arms slid around him then and he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Bruck’s. “You know I would.”

Bruck smiled a little sickly, eyes glittering, shrugged. “Yeah, well . . . Did they do it to you?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes. I thought I was ready, too. I thought I could do what you said, just pretend it was you or Qui.”

“Yeah?” Bruck prompted when Obi-Wan said nothing more.

Obi-Wan told him then, in a voice Bruck had to strain to hear, about the metal ball and cylinder. How much it had hurt. And how good it had felt. “That’s why I killed him,” Obi-Wan said. “Not to get away.”

Bruck said nothing, just looked at him with sadness and the same flash of pity he’d seen before. Then he slid his arms around Obi-Wan and pulled him close. “You poor stupid sod,” he murmured, much to Obi-Wan’s complete bewilderment.

 

* * *

 

“You’re certain you want to do it?”

A considered nod. “Yes. I’d rather keep it between the two of us. I don’t think it will help any to have his yearmates around. And it might make it worse. I’ll finish the job. I’ve been a bastard before.” A shrug. “It won’t be so hard to be one again.”

“Harder than you think. It’s not really in you to be one now.”

“Maybe not. But I remember when I was one. And better me than you. I’m expendable, but he really needs you.”

“He needs you too, more than you realize.”

“Well, that just might change after this. But it’s a hard life, isn’t it? And if it keeps him alive someday, it’ll be worth it.”

A bitter smile, shared between them. “I see you’ve learned the lesson every master learns.”

 

* * *

 

In the Temple halls, on their way back from a particularly testy and censorious meeting with the Council during which his master had again found himself at odds with both the Council and the Senate, and censured for it:

“Sometimes, Padawan, the hardest thing about this life is not the dangerous duty, or the thanklessness or loneliness of it, but the necessary duplicity of one’s own colleagues and the betrayal of one’s own ideals for a greater good.”

 

* * *

 

To say the sparring match went badly would have been a gross understatement at the best of times. Though he and Bruck were quite evenly matched, Obi-Wan won more often than not because Bruck had not yet learned to tame his recklessness and Obi-Wan had. Qui-Gon’s padawan would simply let his friend wear himself out and disarm him. This time, the heart seemed to have gone out of Obi-Wan before they even began, and Bruck bested him easily in four out of four bouts. In the last one, he drove Obi-Wan up onto the catwalk and disarmed him in the middle of it, his saber clattering to the floor ten meters below. He went to both knees, Bruck’s blade at his throat.

“I concede,” he said wearily.

“Concede my ass, Kenobi. You didn’t even try,” Bruck snapped. “Get your ass down there and pick it up and do it again.”

“Yes, My Master,” Obi-Wan replied with a weak grin and a half-hearted attempt at humor. He got to his feet and turned away, heading for the catwalk ladder. He heard Bruck power down his saber and then lights exploded in his head like a fireworks display and the room went dark around him.

He woke with a pounding headache, in the same practice room, strung up from a set of gymnastics rings, only the balls of his feet on the floor, ankles tied to sunken eyebolts that normally secured other equipment when not covered by mats, dressed in nothing but his practice shorts. There was no collar on his neck this time, but the Force was just as inaccessible as it had been in the Agency cell. Someone had turned on the Force shielding sometimes used to keep the older padawans from getting too complacent in their reliance on it. And where the hell was Bruck?

As though summoned, the other boy walked around in front of him, Obi-Wan’s lightsaber in his hand, his own clipped to his belt. “Bruck, what—?”

“This is nice,” he said conversationally, ignoring Obi-Wan’s words. “You did a good job, Kenobi. It handles really well.” He flipped the blade on, made a few passes with it. “Nice balance. All the controls in easily accessible places. Nice color even. Like the hottest part of the fire.” He made a broad sweep and the blade kissed Obi-Wan’s hip. The saber was dialed to practice level, but still left a scorch that made him jerk in surprise.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

“Teaching your sorry ass a lesson. Did you think you were going to get off easier than the rest of us? Hardass Kenobi. Perfect Fucking Padawan. Screams and pukes and shits himself but holds out longer than any of us. And kills the guy that’s torturing him.” Bruck snorted in disgust. “And now his feelings are all hurt because he had to go through the same thing the rest of us did. You really do think you’re better than the rest of us, don’t you?”

“Bruck, what are you talking about? What the hell’s gotten into you?” He didn’t know whether he was supposed to be afraid or angry, if this were some kind of joke or padawan hazing he hadn’t heard about or . . . or if Bruck were somehow . . . serious. That made the pit of his stomach go cold.

“I thought I knew you, Kenobi,” Bruck went on as though he hadn’t heard. “I thought you really were what you’re so good at pretending to be, that you really were so much more together than I am, and you’re not. You’re just soft. Does Qui-Gon ride you like that? Is that why it felt so good?”

Obi-Wan saw what it was now and turned away, sickened by Bruck’s jealousy.

Bruck slapped the back of his thighs with the blade again and held it there for a few seconds, leaving a more painful burn. Reflexively, he jerked away and stifled a hiss.

“That’s not enough, is it? You like it rougher. That’s why I’ve never been good enough for you, why it’s always ‘Qui-Gon this’ and ‘Qui-Gon that.’ He must fuck you until you bleed, Kenobi, for you to hold out like that. I’ll bet these felt really good,” Bruck said, running his hand over the raised pictograms on Obi-Wan’s back. “Was he fucking you then, while he did them?”

Obi-Wan didn’t answer, just turned his face away and closed his eyes. This seemed too bizarre to be real. It had been strangers before, and this was someone he knew, thought he knew and trusted, had trusted. Had thought he’d loved.

“Tell me. Was he fucking you?” Obi-Wan said nothing. Surreptitiously, he tested the bindings on his wrists, but Bruck had done a good job and there was no give in the broad strips of cloth. He realized what they were now: the same restraints the younger padawans practiced getting out of with the Force. There was no chance he was going to get out of them without it. He’d have to outwait Bruck. Someone would wonder where they were, eventually.

“Answer me, you asshole.” Bruck held the saber against the soles of his feet and Obi-Wan yelped and jerked.

“They’ll throw you out for this, Bruck. Just quit it, n—” His voice squeaked to a halt as Bruck brought the blade up between his legs, stopping it against his crotch. He could smell the fabric of his shorts scorching.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please, Bruck, don’t do this,” afraid now.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” The other boy’s eyes glittered, pupils dilated almost to black. “You should see yourself, Kenobi, the hungry look on your face, how black your eyes are. There’s just this thin ring of green. Are you remembering or anticipating? Was he fucking you?”

“Shut up, Bruck,” Obi-Wan snapped.

“Tell me,” the other boy demanded.

“It’s none of your fucking business. Let me out of this—”

“Not until you tell me.”

“I’m not telling you shit, Bruck. You think I tell Qui-Gon what we do?”

“I know you do, you bastard!” Bruck snarled. “I’ve seen the way he watches us when we’re together. You’d go running right home and tell him the minute we were done if I’d let you. Hell, you’d probably like him to watch. Does he punish you then for being unfaithful? Is that how the game works?”

“He’s not like that—”

“I am,” Bruck said darkly. He shoved the saber up the back of Obi-Wan’s loose shorts and held it there until it had burnt through the cloth. It left a stinging welt on one buttock and the shorts pooled around the opposite leg.

“This excites you, doesn’t it? Sure it does. Look at you.” Bruck wrapped one hand around his hardening cock and stroked. “You can’t wait. You really do like this, don’t you?”

“Bruck don’t,” Obi-Wan said softly, almost pleading, his aching arms quivering as he tried to pull himself out of Bruck’s grasp, shamed at his body’s betrayal.

“If you tell me, maybe I won’t,” Bruck replied craftily, thumb sliding beneath Obi-Wan’s foreskin, finding a bead of moisture there. He brought his thumb up to his mouth and licked it, watching. “Was Qui-Gon fucking you when he made those pictograms?”

“Fuck you!” Obi-Wan snarled.

“Mmmmm, no, I think it’s going to be the other way around.” Bruck powered down Obi-Wan’s saber, hooked it to his belt beside his own, and walked around behind. He heard a rustle of clothing then felt Bruck’s hands on him, firm but gentle, stroking his back, down his spine where the pictograms were. “These are so beautiful. How much did it hurt?” he said, and licked over one of them. “You told me it did. How much? More than the agent hurt you?” When there was no answer, Bruck shoved two fingers into him, hard. Obi-Wan cried out then bit his lip. Bruck’s arm slid around his waist, steadying him as his fingers jammed in harder. Obi-Wan arched away again, or tried to against Bruck’s grip. “How much?”

“Stop it, please,” Obi-Wan said softly, voice choked. “Please, Bruck.” Though the other boy’s fingers were slender, it hurt like the first time they’d fucked on the floor of Bruck’s quarters, when neither of them had been entirely sure of what they were doing. He couldn’t believe Bruck was doing this, that it could happen here. That it felt so good.

“How much?” Bruck’s hand drifted down, fingernails scraping Obi-Wan’s skin and leaving a trail of red welts across his chest. He reached between Obi-Wan’s legs and squeezed his scrotum, hard.

“A lot!” he cried, agony shooting through his groin and into the pit of his stomach. “Don’t! It hurt a lot! Stop it—”

“Worse than this?”

“Yes!” he shrieked. Bruck let go and Obi-Wan sagged against him, shivering. Bruck stroked his cock gently.

“Look how hard you are. You really like this, don’t you? Wish I’d known sooner. We could have had a lot more fun. I’ll bet you didn’t screech like that when Qui-Gon cut you. Did you?” He brushed his fingers, still buried deeply, against Obi-Wan’s prostate.

“No,” he moaned, shivering again. Oh gods, it felt so good. He was so hard, balls aching not just from Bruck’s hands but with need. “Please, Bruck . . . don’t . . .”

“Don’t what?” he said, removing his fingers. Obi-Wan jerked again in his restraints, feeling suddenly bereft.

“Don’t . . .” Obi-Wan moaned again.

“Is this what you want, Ben?” Bruck said, sighing in his ear as the crown of his cock pressed against him, pushing inside. “Is that what you want? Hard and fast? Or doesn’t it hurt enough?”

“Please,” Obi-Wan whispered.

“Then tell me. Did Qui-Gon fuck you while he was cutting you?”

“No . . .”

“Liar!” Bruck squeezed his balls again, shoved into him roughly. It hurt, oh, gods it hurt. Not like the nanites or the cylinder up his ass had. It hurt because it was Bruck, because he’d never been like this. And something in him loved it, loved the pain, loved that it was Bruck hurting him like this, wanted Bruck to make him bleed. He was panting now and so hard, so hard. But it wasn’t right, it wasn’t, somehow. How could he be like this? How could he be so attuned to the Force and like the pain this much?

Bruck held his hips hard and began to pound into him, grunting. The angle was awkward and with no lubrication it was like sandpaper. It wasn’t enough to bring him off, but Bruck shuddered and came quickly, pulling away and running his fingers over the loosened and leaking pucker, bringing his fingers to Obi-Wan’s lips. “Suck them,” he said. Obi-Wan turned his head away and Bruck grabbed his tail, forcing his head back, and shoved his fingers into Obi-Wan’s mouth. “Suck them,” he snarled. “Lick them clean. My cum and your shit. It’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

Lips closed around Bruck’s fingers, Obi-Wan nodded, closing his eyes.

“As good as Qui-Gon’s? Does he make you do that too?” He slid his fingers out of Obi-Wan’s mouth.

“I won’t—”

“Yeah, you will. Because I’ll hurt you, Ben. I’ll hurt you until you do tell me. And you’ll like it.”

He heard one of the sabers hum to life behind him. It kissed his unburned buttock, raising a matching burn welt and he jerked and cried out. Bruck reached around and stroked his cock, which bobbed against his stomach, leaking fluid in a steady stream. Then the saber powered down again and he felt something cold and metallic rub against the cleft in his ass, down over his perineum, nudging his balls. “You really want this, don’t you?”

“Bruck, don’t . . .” he choked, knowing what was coming, wanting it, unbearably excited by the idea, and knowing he’d couldn’t face himself for wanting it.

“Don’t what?” the other boy said again, pushing the business end of the saber against his ass. He shuddered and closed his eyes. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t stop,” he gasped, feeling his face flame.

“Tell me. Did Qui-Gon fuck you when he was cutting you? Did it hurt? Did you like it?” The saber pressed harder, Bruck’s fingers slid in, stretching him, holding him open, guiding it.

“Don’t . . .” Obi-Wan squirmed, or tried to, muscles burning in his shoulders, his arms and legs, in his ass.

“Did it feel like this going in? I know Qui-Gon’s big . . . ” Now it was almost inside, and he knew it had to be his own because he could feel the lip of the flange digging into him. “Is this bigger?” Bruck twisted it a little and then all of the head was in, past the inner set of spasming muscles. He could feel the rivets on the casing, the flange cutting into him. Gods it hurt. He thought he might come right then but Bruck stopped him, pressing the spot behind his balls with a thumb. His cock sagged a little.

“Answer me, Kenobi. Is this bigger?”

“No!” Obi-Wan yelped as Bruck gave the saber another twist, driving it a little deeper. Much farther and the activation button would be right up against him. Maybe that would be better. He was humiliated enough already. Better to be speared on his own saber than ever face Qui-Gon or anyone else after this.

“Good answer,” Bruck said approvingly, moving the saber hilt in and out slowly, giving it a little twist each time. He could feel the rivets and flange catching, tearing, and flinched and bucked, moaning. He was hard again, aching, needing to come. Bruck squeezed his cock below the crown, twisted the saber hilt a little more. He gasped and went very still when he felt the activation button scrape his cheek.

“Bruck, gods, don’t . . .” He was afraid now, and that made it worse, tinging the pain with fear. He’d never felt so desperately aroused or so terrified that someone would find him like this.

“Just a little more?”

“No! Don’t!”

“Then tell me,” he snarled. “Was he fucking you like this, cutting you outside like I’m cutting you inside?” The hilt felt slick now and he knew it wasn’t just Bruck’s cum but blood as well. Bruck twisted it again and Obi-Wan jerked and screamed as he felt the activation button depress as it slid into his rectum.

He was still screaming a moment later when he realized nothing had happened, but he couldn’t stop now. It was like falling over a cliff. The words came out of him in a rush, as uncontrollable as when he’d voided his bowels involuntarily. “Yes!” he screamed, terror arcing through him, not wanting to die like this, wanting release, wanting Bruck to take the last step, make the last twist, fuck him hard, hurt him. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes, he fucked me,” Obi-Wan sobbed. “It hurt like hell. It felt so good. Then he wouldn’t let me come. Let me come, Bruck. Make me come. Please! Please. . . .”

Bruck gave the hilt a final twisting shove, pushing it halfway in, and Obi-Wan screamed again and came hard, cum spattering his belly and chest, hips jerking, voice falling to a guttering moan that trailed off into sobbing. He scarcely felt Bruck work the hilt gently out of him or realized his bonds were being loosened. Everything had crashed down around him and he wished he were dead. Anything would be better than this.

Bruck held him, rocked him gently, stroking his hair as everything he had known about himself went up in flames and died in the ashes. “Shhhh. It’s all right. It’s over. It’s over. Shhhh. Nothing will be worse than this, Ben. After this, they can only kill you.”

 

* * *

 

I am with him when he wakes from the bacta this time. Bruck hasn’t really done much more than superficial damage, though it must have felt as if he had, and Obi-Wan has been in the tank only a few hours. What finally broke my padawan was more fear of himself than fear of death, or of the pain he’d discovered he liked so well. But at least now he will know for himself what I’ve seen glimpses of: his desire to be dominated, his enjoyment of pain. That he would see it as a character flaw, rather than simply a trait, is something we will have to discuss.

Something I failed to do with Xanatos.

Obi-Wan once told me that everything I did in his training was influenced by my experiences with Xan, and he was right. It is, in some ways, still the case, because it must be. We should learn from our mistakes, especially those of us who teach. One of many mistakes I made in teaching Xanatos was not making him look into his own darkness—the polar opposite of Obi-Wan’s—confront it, own it and learn how to use it or let it go without turning to the Dark. Blinded as I was by my own love and my own needs, I would not let myself see the darkness in someone I loved.

There are shadowy places in all of us, places that hold our guilt, our shame, our cruelty, our anger, our self-loathing, our pain. These are the things the most skilled of interrogators can turn against us, when physical pain proves ineffective. Coupled with the pain of our bodies, the hurts we hold inside or inflict on ourselves can undo us more easily than any other tool. There is nothing so frightening as having a total stranger see into your soul more clearly than you do. No Jedi can afford this catastrophe.

He wakes slowly, as he always does, sweet slack features taking on the still-malleable alertness of consciousness, eyelids fluttering then rising slowly over irises that are glass-green. His eyes are usually an indicator of his mood and I am always a little . . . on my guard, shall we say, when they are this color.

“How do you feel, Padawan?” I ask quietly, not touching him, knowing he might not want it yet, or ever again. He turns away without answering, sleep-loosened shields slamming shut against me.

“Were you watching this time, too?” he says in a soft voice, hoarse with screaming and bitterness.

“Yes,” I tell him. “As I will watch your final trials. I would not willingly abandon you, not while I am still allowed to be with you.”

The agent who interrogated Obi-Wan was indeed one of the best, and I had asked for him specifically. I had never meant to break my padawan, as I suspected he would hold out much longer than most, as he did, and I knew it would be wrenching to watch and to feel, as it was. Obi-Wan’s endurance has surprised me before, as it did the night I cut the pictograms into his back. I should have been more suspicious when he begged me to do to him what I had planned to have done to me, when he so willingly offered to endure an ordeal he did not deserve. I had seen this in him before, his desire to be owned, marked, treated with some roughness, but it was not until that night when he so clearly reveled in both the pain I was causing him and the pleasure mingled with it, that I saw clearly what he did not. And I knew he would have to face it before it was brought home to him in just such a scenario as we created. When he told Bruck he had killed the agent not to get away but to merely stop him, I knew the lesson had not gone far enough, that Obi-Wan had not truly seen himself clearly.

That Bruck would come to me with this information tells me how much he has grown since his own trial, and how well he understands its purpose. That he would volunteer to complete the task tells me both what kind of Jedi and Master he will be and how much he loves my padawan, though Obi-Wan may not realize it. It also shows how well he knows me, or of me through Obi-Wan, knows I could not inflict such pain except under the worst conditions. No master should be asked to do this task, no lover. It is hard enough to merely observe and do nothing. I have much to thank Bruck for. In this, he has had more courage than I.

“Are you satisfied now? Did you see what you wanted to see?”

There is so much pain in his voice, and I know my padawan feels betrayed. How could he not? Both his lovers and his master have hurt him terribly, one by omission and the other commission, in ways he is only beginning to understand.

“That depends on you, Obi-Wan.”

My reply piques his curiosity, and rouses some of his outrage as well. He turns back to me with green eyes blazing like the blade of my saber.

“What the hell does that mean? Didn’t I scream enough for you?”

“More than enough, My Padawan. It was too much for me before you ever started. I don’t know how you bear it.”

He starts to reply, stops, swallows his words and turns away again. In the brief moment before he does so, he looks into my eyes and I see he knows I felt what he did through our bond, that I spared myself nothing of his pain. How could I honor him any less? Then I see shame cloud the green as he turns his face from me. He rolls over, pulls his knees up and hugs himself in misery. “Go away,” he whispers. “Leave me alone.”

I stroke his hair and he lets me. “Pain is just another sensation, Obi-Wan, and when your body is full of endorphins, there is often little difference between it and pleasure. Your body simply wants what it wants, whether food or air or water or sex. You need to be aware of those needs and decide how and when and even if to act on them, and whether to let them define you or merely be a part of you. Remember the meditation on serenity and passion. It applies to all those strong emotions that drive us. Think on it, My Padawan. Come talk to me when you’re ready to speak of it.”

He says nothing, does not move toward me, but I know he will come to me, when he has had time to think. The wounds are too fresh now, the betrayals too painful, but that will heal with time. Obi-Wan is a sensible young man and has learned to bridle his passions well in the years I’ve known him. He will learn to do the same with this one, and find the release for it where he can, because he also knows this is one thing I cannot give him. Not yet.

 

* * *

 

In the Healers’ Hall, fever freshly broken, lungs slowly clearing from a bout of near-pneumonia he’d brought on by working himself into exhaustion, Master Windu lecturing him in Qui-Gon’s absence:

“Oftentimes, Padawan, our bodies are much smarter than we are, and will tell us what we need, what we should and should not do, if we care to listen to them. Don’t make the mistake of ignoring yours again.”

 

* * *

 

Not long after he heard Qui-Gon leave his room, one of the healers’ apprentices appeared, set down a pile of clothing on a nearby chair, and told him it was time to go. “You’re fine, Padawan Kenobi. Your master said to release you as soon as possible.”

He stared stupidly for a moment, then got up, and began to dress, automatically, without thought. It was true, he felt all right. The burns, such as they were, had healed without scarring, the minor rips and tears in his rectum likewise. And yet he felt dazed, off balance. Lost.

He put on the clean clothes Qui-Gon had sent him—the fresh underclothes, the trousers, the undertunic and overtunic, the stola, the sash, the belt, the boots, the cloak—and still felt naked, the way he had lying trussed like some food animal in a marketplace, as though he’d been stripped of all his skin as well. Under all those clothes, he was not only naked, but flayed and hurting. He stalled a little, sitting on the edge of the bed and replaiting his braid, not knowing where it was he was supposed to go. Was he really expected to go back to Qui-Gon? They had nothing to say to each other and the idea of going back to his own quarters chilled him.

But the idea of going to Bruck’s made him sick.

And yet, that was where his feet took him, many, many hours later, after he had wandered in the gardens, gone to the refectory to try to eat something, fled back to the gardens again when he realized he would have to face friends and acquaintances there. He’d gone to the pool and swum for a time, soaking his head and trying to regain some sense of normalcy, to forget, to go on—all in vain. Then he’d gone to his favorite spot in the gardens, a small copse with a trickle of water running through it, and fallen asleep to the sound of it there, trying to meditate, waking stiff and hungry several hours later, well into twilight. Night had caught him deep in the Temple grounds.

He felt as though he were lost in some great wilderness, without resources or the possibility of rescue, and worst of all, without hope. Every route he chose was impassable, impossible, a dead end, Qui-Gon, or Bruck, or exile at the end of them. Finally, he’d gone to his knees, sitting in the middle of some unfamiliar part of the gardens, exhausted and nearly paralyzed. _Get up,_ he told himself. _Get up, or just end it now. You’re not the only person who’s ever gone through this. You’re not dead yet. Get up, you fool._

And he had, somehow, gotten to his feet, and walked—of all places—to Bruck’s quarters. By then it was well past midnight, though he was hardly aware of the time until Bruck came to the door yawning, wearing nothing but a pair of old practice shorts. Seeing Obi-Wan on the other side of the door, he snapped off his yawn with an almost audible crack in his jaw.

“Ben!” he gulped, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“I need to talk to you,” Obi-Wan said quietly, in a voice full of desperation.

“Um, sure. Of course.” Bruck stepped aside and Obi-Wan walked past him, again feeling that sense of dislocation he’d had the last time he’d come here, that sense of a place that wasn’t home but could be without much effort. Bruck watched him warily as he looked around for something familiar, something he could use to anchor, to ground himself again. But there was nothing. Nothing, perhaps, except Bruck himself. He turned to the other young man, expression hurt and quizzical, oblivious to Bruck’s apprehension.

“What did I do wrong?” Obi-Wan said.

The other boy looked away for a moment, then back up into his friend’s eyes. “Let me have your cloak, Ben,” he said, taking it gently off Obi-Wan’s shoulders and hanging it up. “Go sit down. I’ll get us some tea.” This was the last thing he’d expected, Obi-Wan coming to him after what he’d done, and he needed a few moments of mindless activity to pull his thoughts together and regain his composure.

When Bruck came back some minutes later holding two steaming mugs, he found Obi-Wan sitting on the edge of a chair, staring blankly at the floor. He set one mug on the table and pressed Obi-Wan’s hands around the other, then knelt in front of him and sipped his own. “Drink it while it’s hot, Ben.” He had nearly finished his own before Obi-Wan spoke again.

“I need to know, Bruck. Please.”

The other boy put his tea aside and looked unflinchingly into Obi-Wan’s eyes. “It wasn’t a test, Ben. It was a dry run under controlled conditions. The only way you can fail is by doing what you’re doing now. You’re focusing on the wrong stuff. It’s not important that you broke or didn’t break or how much you were hurt before you did, or even what, exactly, broke you. It’s not even that important that you killed the agent because you thought it was real. It was real. It hurt. It pushed you right over your limits, or would have, if Qui-Gon hadn’t pulled you out. What’s important is that you learned what those limits are, and that when you reach them, you learn how to find the pieces and put yourself back together again. Nobody’s going to coddle your sorry ass if this happens in the field.”

“No. I know,” Obi-Wan said in a barely audible voice, hands shaking.

Bruck watched him for a moment, then reached up and folded his own hands over Obi-Wan’s, steadying them and the cup he was holding. “Why was that such a surprise, Ben?”

“Why was what?” he answered, looking at Bruck in confusion.

“That it felt good? Anybody who’s ever seen you injured in a sparring match is going to guess at it, the way you just keep going through it, pushing yourself harder. And anybody who’s slept with you more than twice is going to know it for sure. If you got out a little more, this wouldn’t seem so earthshattering. You’re not the only human in the galaxy who likes it a little rough.”

Obi-Wan laughed, short and sharp. “Is that what it’s called? ‘Liking it a little rough’?”

“Among other things. If I were whoring you out, I’d sell you to the rough trade crowd as a not-very-submissive bottom. The leather boys would really like tying you up and riding you. And some dom trixie with a lash—”

“Shut up!” Obi-Wan shouted, wild-eyed, nearly flinging his cup into Bruck’s face.

“Ben, it’s just another sensation, like heat or cold—”

“No, it’s not! It’s not something neutral. We’ve got reflexes built into us to avoid it. It’s a punishment,” he insisted, remembering one night he’d fucked Qui-Gon until he’d bled, because his master had wanted it, thought somehow that he deserved it. “Pain makes people afraid—”

“Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, yeah, yeah, I know. We go to the same school, remember? Except, you dumbass, you’re not afraid of the pain. Qui-Gon ever make you watch vids of yourself from sparring matches, especially the two of you together against another team?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you’ve never noticed how fearless you are? How fierce? You and Qui-Gon are both a couple of shitkickers, but there’s a difference. Qui-Gon’s fearless because he’s really good and he knows it. You’re fearless because you don’t care. You’ve called me reckless before, but it takes one to know one. The only thing you’re afraid of is failure—because that would hurt Qui-Gon,” Bruck finished as if he were just figuring something out himself. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re afraid of it, of the pain, of liking the pain, because Qui-Gon doesn’t like it.” He saw the truth of his words in Obi-Wan’s face, in the sudden blush of shame, in the aversion of his eyes, in the look of agony that flashed over his features. “You think there’s something wrong with you because it’s not Qui-Gon’s thing, don’t you?”

“How can it be right, Bruck?” Obi-Wan whispered. “How can it be right when it sickens him to see anything hurt?” And yet . . . and yet . . . not a year and a half ago hadn’t Qui-Gon nearly fisted him dry? But he’d been suffering himself then, feeling someone else’s injuries . . . And hadn’t he, Obi-Wan, wanted Qui-Gon to do it, no matter if it hurt, or how much it hurt?

He didn’t know what to think now. Everything he’d known about himself and much of what he’d known about Qui-Gon seemed suddenly very grey instead of black and white.

“Hey, Ben! Hello?” Bruck startled him, snapping his fingers in front of Obi-Wan’s face, jerking him out of reverie. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not Qui-Gon. You’re not even joined at the hip, at least not at this particular moment. Does that make you less empathetic? Less effective doing the job? Not that I’ve noticed. So it turns you on. So what? Are you a masochist or do you just like a little pain?”

“What?” Obi-Wan just looked at him blankly. For a moment, Bruck felt old and jaded, and Obi-Wan seemed so young. _You’d think we’d grown up on completely different planets,_ Bruck thought. _I guess we did._

“Is that who you are, or is it just what you like? Your focus determines your reality, remember?”

Bruck was relieved to see some sign of comprehension finally settling over his friend’s features, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, you fucking moron,” Bruck snapped, exasperated. “Is that the only way you can get off, by having somebody hurt you?”

“No. . . .”

“Well?”

“Then I guess I just like a little pain,” Obi-Wan mumbled, looking away.

Bruck took his friend’s chin in his hand, made Obi-Wan focus on him. “‘Ohhh, _harder_ , Bruck,’” he moaned in Obi-Wan’s accent, and stuck his other hand down his own shorts, hips thrusting. “‘Please, Bruck! Fuck me _harder_. Oh, gods! Come on, do it right _now!_ I can’t _wait!_ ’” Bruck moaned. Obi-Wan felt his face growing hot and tried to look away, mortified, wondering if he really sounded like that, but Bruck held his chin firmly, then threw his head back and closed his eyes. “‘Hurry, hurry, hurry! I want it from behind, hard and fast. Oh gods please! Oh gods Bruck _fuck me!_ ’” he yelled. Then he reached between Obi-Wan’s legs and squeezed his stiffening cock, making the other young man jump and flinch. “See?” he said in his own voice. “All I have to do is talk dirty to you to get you going. I could probably talk you right into coming, without even touching you. Or threatening to hurt you. You’re so easy.”

“But not cheap,” Obi-Wan grinned weakly, face flushed.

“No, not cheap at all,” Bruck said quietly, cupping his cheek. “You’ve cost me pretty dearly the last couple of days.”

“I was rather under the impression that you enjoyed it,” Obi-Wan muttered, pulling away.

Bruck said nothing but got up abruptly and walked to where Obi-Wan’s cloak hung, took it down and flung it at him furiously.

“Get out. And don’t come back.” Obi-Wan had never heard Bruck’s voice so cold. It only angered him more.

“Didn’t you?” Obi-Wan snapped back at him, letting the cloak fall at his feet. “It certainly seemed like it. You were quite expert at it, in fact. As good as the agent I killed.”

“You don’t know me at all, Kenobi,” Bruck seethed. “Not at all, if you think I liked doing what I did to you without your consent. I did it because somebody had to, and your master couldn’t, and there wasn’t anybody else in our year I’d trust. It had to be one of us, one of your peers, who finished the job, or a group of us, and I wanted to protect you, you stupid shit. This way it stays between you and me.”

“Did you really think we’d go on sleeping together after this?” Obi-Wan demanded, incredulous.

“I didn’t think I’d ever even see you again, you fool. But it had to be done because the Council said so, and that was the best way I knew how to do it. Now do you understand? I was willing to give you up to get you through this, Kenobi. I don’t expect any thanks from you, but I do want some respect. Because, contrary to your high-and-fucking-mighty opinion, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Bruck choked on the last few words and turned away, wiping his eyes.

It occurred to Obi-Wan that he’d only seen Bruck cry once before, the first time they’d made love. He stood now with his back to Obi-Wan, ribs heaving, struggling for control. And suddenly their positions were—if not completely reversed—then much more similar. It wasn’t that he could forgive Bruck yet, or even put what he’d done aside, but that he understood how much Bruck had sacrificed for him.

“Bruck—”

“Just fuck off, Kenobi,” he choked. “Just get out and let me get on with it.”

“Bruck, I’m sorry. I didn’t, I didn’t know.”

“No, if you could think that of me, I can’t, I just can’t be with you.”

“What was I supposed to think?” he shouted, afraid now that he’d made it all irretrievably worse. “Was I supposed to think you were doing this for my own good? No. I was supposed to think you were trying to break me, and you did a damn good job of it. You did what the agent couldn’t do. Now you expect me to just let it go like that? Like magic?”

“No,” Bruck snarled, turning on him finally, eyes still brimming. “I told you what I want from you. All I want is that you stop rubbing my nose in it. I did what needed to be done because I thought it would be easier on you, and I’m paying for it now. You’re not the only one who got hurt in this. Just go.”

Obi-Wan took a step back in the face of Bruck’s anger and hurt, then picked up his cloak, watching warily, but the other boy had turned away once more, wiping his eyes again. He stopped for a moment, then threw the cloak onto the chair behind him and came up behind Bruck, sliding his arms around the young man’s waist and leaning against his back. Bruck’s shoulders stiffened at the touch but he didn’t struggle out of it. Obi-Wan rubbed his cheek against the back of Bruck’s neck.

“It doesn’t seem right that it always has to be so hard between all of us,” he said quietly.

“It’s a hard life,” Bruck said bitterly. “Or so they keep saying.”

“Sometimes I think we only make it more so than it already would be.”

“Me too,” Bruck whispered.

Obi-Wan hugged him again, then let go, picked up his cloak, and left.

 

* * *

 

He comes home early in the morning hours, slipping into our quarters with very little noise, and going to his own room where he has not slept in two years. I made up the bed there when I returned much earlier, knowing he would want privacy and time to think and heal. Normally, I would not wait up for my padawan, and I have not tonight, in the sense that I am not sitting in the common room, but I have not slept well alone since we became lovers, and the bed seems larger and colder tonight than it has in some time.

I miss him.

And that, perhaps, is the problem. Each apprentice is as much a test for the master as for the student, and Obi-Wan is, I think, my final exam. I seem to be failing miserably. After all these years, I should know myself better than I seem to. I should know that watching my padawan suffer, whether in the pain trials, or in the field, raises a comparable pain in my heart. I should know, by now, how to deal with it, and yet, every injury is a fresh shock. I know it is my unusual connection to the Living Force that makes it so, and after so many years, I should have mastered it. I have not.

And I am making the same mistake with Obi-Wan that I did with Xanatos. Instead of toughening him I’ve protected him. Although his diplomatic experience and skills rival or exceed that of many knights and even some masters, his knowledge of the seamier sides of existence is lacking. The mission to the Rim before we became lovers is the closest he has observed or been involved in it during our time together, and I know he found that a shocking and painful experience, as common as it is in all too many people’s lives. Obi-Wan is a good man, and in his goodness finds it difficult to imagine the darker emotions being given free rein. Most especially in himself.

I had hoped Bruck, who is as troublesome as any other young man his age, and yet with a core of goodness himself, might be able to teach Obi-Wan what I cannot, what I myself learned only through years of experience. That I was willing to sacrifice their feelings for each other to do so does not, I fear, speak well of me, except as a master. That Bruck was also willing to do so says something entirely different and altogether more noble. I wonder if Andreth knows what a good padawan he has.

I listen for a time to see if my padawan needs anything, but his door does not open again, and he remains tightly shielded from me, our bond quiescent. I clear my mind and settle into a lonely and uneasy sleep.

 

* * *

 

Outside the Healers’ Halls this time, returning to their quarters after Qui-Gon’s recovery from a terrible set of burns that now scarred almost half of his back:

“The odd thing about pain like this is that, while one has it, it is impossible to imagine what it was like without it, and when it is gone, impossible to truly remember what it was like when it was present.”

 

* * *

 

It felt strange and somehow wrong to be in this small room again. Though it was no more barren of his things than it had been before he and Qui-Gon had become lovers, it seemed unfamiliar and cold. He felt, if not exactly better after talking to Bruck, then at least calmer and more clear-headed than before, and the anger he had vented on his master was cooler now. Qui-Gon had done what he had to do for his apprentice’s training, and done what he could to ease the pain of that harsh training for his lover. All too often, the two roles conflicted and Obi-Wan knew it was his job to realize this and deal with the consequences, as it was his master’s job to keep his own feelings from interfering.

Some occasions were harder than others; this was one of them. There were few secrets between he and Qui-Gon, could not be with the training bond they shared and the lover’s bond that had been growing between them for the last two years, but it was still humiliating to know Qui-Gon had watched him shatter as he had. Even though his master had seen him sick, filthy, exhausted, furious, grief-stricken, injured, frantic with passion, blindly ecstatic in orgasm—all those things and more—this was so far beyond any experience he had ever had that there was nothing comparable. He had come apart and lost some pieces of himself very publicly and even though he knew it was a necessary part of his training, it had left him feeling raw and . . . misused. Misused by the very man from whom he would have sought comfort.

Whether Qui-Gon would ever again give him that comfort was another matter. Obi-Wan wondered how he could, knowing what he did now about his own padawan. All too often he had chided and teased Qui-Gon about his tender heart and deep empathy for things injured and in pain, had watched him anguish over some creature or person who’d been abused. How could it not disgust him to know his lover had been more aroused and more satisfied than he had ever been only when someone was hurting him? And no matter what Bruck said, that made it a shameful desire, somehow.

Obi-Wan sank onto his knees beside the narrow bed and wrapped his cloak tightly around himself, feeling sick. He wanted to be held and touched and comforted by his master’s large and gentle hands and wondered if he would be ever again, except perhaps only as his padawan.

He was still on his knees, still wrapped in his cloak, when Qui-Gon rapped on his door a few hours later to rouse him for the day, standing in his doorway as he had for years before they had become lovers, quietly calling him as though from sleep, though he had been meditating through the night.

“I hope you found the hours well-spent, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said gently, watching him with that slightly amused, fond, and somewhat pitying look he had endured since becoming the man’s padawan. “Why,” he had asked Qui-Gon once when he was much younger, “do you find it so funny to watch me wake up?” “Not funny, Padawan,” Qui-Gon had answered. “Touching. It is the one moment of the day when you are most unguardedly yourself.” His master’s answer had disturbed him for a long time, until he’d decided to stop worrying about it. Now it made him uneasy all over again, and he could not say why.

“More than I thought it would be, Master,” he replied, sleepy despite the meditation. “Though not very restful.”

“Breakfast will be ready shortly. You’ve just time for a shower, I believe. Perhaps that will help.”

“Perhaps. Thank you, Master. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Breakfast was an uncomfortably silent meal, tension still palpable between them. Obi-Wan ate little and sat sipping his tea while Qui-Gon finished, then cleared their plates and cleaned up. Thankfully, the remainder of the day was filled with classes and workouts that took him away from their rooms. Neither of them were apparently ready to talk yet, or Qui-Gon was allowing him to decide when they should. The activities proved distracting, but unhelpful in resolving Obi-Wan’s unsettling dilemma. He knew he should speak to his master, to his lover, about where they stood now, but could not bring himself to, afraid Qui-Gon’s answer would prove him right.

Returning from his last class, he discovered one of the porters heading for their door a few steps ahead of him and caught him just before the older Lannik reached it.

“Ah, Padawan Kenobi. You’ve saved me from an awkward moment. This package arrived for you just a bit ago, from a very lovely young lady who wouldn’t give her name. It’s been scanned, of course, and it seems harmless enough, but I thought you might not want your master to know, eh?” The large ears waggled suggestively along with the bushy eyebrows.

“Nothing like that, Adric. I can’t be embarrassed if I don’t know the young lady, can I?” Obi-Wan smiled. “But thank you for your discretion.” He took the package, bowing, and went inside. Qui-Gon was not yet home, but Obi-Wan found he preferred not to be caught opening whatever it was in the common room, and went into his own to do so.

Inside was a flat box containing what looked to be a very tight pair of black leather pants and a black sleeveless shirt made of some soft stretchy material, with a white triangle balanced on one point printed on the chest. On top of the clothing was a heavy, dark blue card with nothing but an address elegantly printed on it in gold embossed ink, and a scribbled note on the back—from Bruck: “Meet me here,” he’d written, “wearing these, if you want to get out more,” and naming a time in the early evening.

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure whether to be angry or grateful, and whether he would take up the invitation or not. A number of conflicting emotions flowed through him simultaneously and he closed his eyes meditatively, trying to sort them out. Residual anger at Bruck clashed with relief that they were still speaking with the recognition that Bruck seemed to still care about him with offense that he would dare pick out his wardrobe and humiliation that he would think he needed to with a sort of titillation at what he had sent with fear of what Bruck was getting him into and all of that, finally, with an underlying sense of excitement that was both the anticipation of adventure and arousal. An interesting stew of feelings, he thought, without knowing which ones to follow. He was still deciding when he heard Qui-Gon return some time later. The prospect of spending the evening with his master in the stony silence with which they’d had breakfast made the decision for him.

Qui-Gon was still hanging up his cloak when Obi-Wan left his room, and turned expectantly, hearing his padawan behind him. “Master, will you require my presence this evening?” he asked respectfully, if all in a rush.

Qui-Gon seemed to hesitate a moment before replying. “No, Padawan. Have you been invited out?”

“Yes. I’m not sure how late I’ll be.”

“You’ve been too old for a curfew for some years, Obi-Wan. You know you can come and go as you like. I only ask that your other activities not interfere with your training and duties. Since they never have, I see no point in anticipating that it might this evening. Enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you, Master. I’ll start dinner then.”

“If you like. Thank you, Padawan.”

Dinner, like breakfast, was a silent and awkward meal, Obi-Wan answering his master’s questions about his day in minimalist prose, not exactly sullenly, but certainly not in his usual easy, forthcoming way. Qui-Gon offered to clean up while his apprentice dressed and Obi-Wan gladly fled to the fresher and from thence to his own room, where he was confronted, again, with the question of whether to accede to Bruck’s request and wear the clothing he’d sent.

“Might as well at least try it on,” he muttered.

The leather pants fit him as though they’d been tailored, and by someone who liked to leave little to the imagination. Though lined, they were too tight for anything but a strap and he finally decided not to wear anything under them if he were going to wear them at all. He was very careful tucking himself in and closing the fly. They were, in fact, so tight that they fit nicely inside his black dress boots. Slipping on the equally tight shirt, he looked at himself in the mirror and couldn’t stifle a grin.

Even if Qui-Gon never touched him again, somebody would certainly offer to in this outfit. His ridged stomach muscles and pecs were as obvious beneath the tight shirt as if he’d been naked, and the black cloth, like his own dress uniform, made him seem even more pale than he was. Muscular arms, wide but not broad shoulders, narrow waist, tight butt—nothing concealed. “How’s it hangin’?” was not a question he was going to be asked wearing these pants.

He changed his mind about Bruck picking out his clothing.

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow when he left his room, heading for the door, but “Have a pleasant evening, Padawan,” was his only remark.

“Thank you, Master,” Obi-Wan replied with as much dignity as he could muster, letting the door close softly behind him.

 

* * *

 

It is almost a relief when he goes. Had he stayed much longer in that clothing, I would have had quite a battle with my libido. He is largely unaware of his own appearance, and cares little about it, as a Jedi should, beyond being presentable and dignified when on duty. In Jedi robes he is handsome but not necessarily heartstopping, except, perhaps, to his old master, but in that tight leather and soft shirt he is stunningly, achingly beautiful—and, whether he knows or acknowledges it or not, predatory.

I assume it is Bruck who has invited him out this evening, and I assume Obi-Wan’s other lover and friend is up to something, from the anxiety so evident in my padawan’s manner. Though I doubt anyone else will see it, I can tell from the abruptness of his movements and the tension in his shoulders that something more than the coolness between us is bothering him. He seems almost nervous, if that were possible.

And his eyes are very green.

 

* * *

 

Sitting in the changing rooms with Nori, one of his yearmates and another gymnast, after a grueling workout on the equipment, rubbing balm into each other’s muscles:

“No matter how sore I am the next day, it always feels great after a workout like this.”

 

* * *

 

The building was small and tucked away in one of the nicer commercial districts of Coruscant, surrounded by restaurants and theaters. At first glance, it appeared to be a townhouse or small office building with a sheltered, privacy-screened portico, and nothing but a metal plate with the address on it. Most of the windows were lit and even as he watched, one that had been darkened filled with light, briefly silhouetting a shadowy figure. Obi-Wan took a deep calming breath, wondering why he felt so excited and nervous, and touched his palm to the chime.

The door was answered by an elegantly attired Twi’lek, who introduced himself as Sateet Satereti and seemed to be the doorman.

“Good evening, ser. Please come in.” He stood aside and let Obi-Wan walk into the spacious foyer, all marble and soft lighting. “Might I ask if ser is a member or a guest?”

“A guest, I suppose. I was asked to meet Pa—a gentle named Bruck Chun here.”

The Twi’lek seemed to recognize the name. “Very good, ser. One moment, please. If ser would kindly wait here?”

“Of course.”

A few moments later, Bruck appeared, the Twi’lek doorman trailing and staying only long enough to make certain his services were not required. Obi-Wan almost laughed aloud. Even Bruck couldn’t restrain a grin.

“Just as hot as I thought you’d look,” the other boy commented, looking him up and down. “I wondered if you’d wear it.”

“I’m glad now that I did. It would have spoiled the effect, otherwise, wouldn’t it?” he returned, finding he was eyeing Bruck rather hungrily. And no wonder: head to foot, they were polar opposites, Bruck with his caf-and-cream skin and white hair in a white shirt of the same material as Obi-Wan’s but zipping halfway down the front with a black zipper, this tucked into equally tight leather pants in silver, over his own black boots.

“So what am I doing here?” Obi-Wan asked, folding his arms over this chest.

“Well, you came. You tell me.”

“What did you mean by ‘if I want to get out more’?”

“You know the reference.”

“Where are we that this is going to make anything less earthshattering?”

“A sex club, dimwit,” Bruck answered, rolling his eyes. “Where else would I take you?”

“One that you belong to?” Obi-Wan gawked.

“No. We’re being comped tonight, by a friend of mine who works here.”

“What kind of friend?” Obi-Wan asked suspiciously.

“Come meet her.”

“Her?”

“Look, either get the stick out of your ass, Kenobi, or go home. How many fertility rite celebrations have you and Qui-Gon seen or been involved in in your diplomatic tours? Don’t act like such a little prude when I know you’re not one. I’m not going to have you making everybody here all uptight and embarrass Suri.”

“All right, all right. I’m just not too certain about this yet.”

Bruck glided up to him and rubbed against his hip, squeezing his cock through the soft leather. “Some part of you is pretty sure about it. Follow your instincts, Padawan. Come on.” He took Obi-Wan’s hand and led him into a room farther down the hallway.

Their entrance caused a quiet stir, but it often did whether they were on or off duty. Two remarkably handsome Jedi padawans appearing in sexy civilian clothes were difficult to ignore, and no one did. Bruck slipped an arm around his waist and several curious onlookers turned away, taking the hint, but a number of other women and men gravitated toward both of them anyway, several of the younger ones orbiting like glittering moons, offering interesting conversation, drinks, finger food, and some of the milder inhalants Obi-Wan preferred to liquor. No one made any lewd suggestions and there was not much more flirting going on than he had endured at any number of official functions. Somewhere during the evening, Bruck wandered off, but Obi-Wan had no cause to feel deserted, surrounded as he was by interesting and apparently quite normal people. It wasn’t long before he actually began to enjoy himself, an occurrence that surprised him, given his previous sleepless and miserable night and the events of the last tenth—not to mention his present location.

The room itself was large and pleasantly lit and scattered with comfortable furniture, a bar at one end doing brisk business. There seemed to be nothing more erotic going on than an amusing party, but Obi-Wan was surprised to see a number of familiar and important faces from the Senate, a number of government organizations and, astonishingly, Adi Gallia, also not wearing dress blacks but in very becoming civilian dress. She and Obi-Wan exchanged polite but silent bows and continued their own conversations, hers with a prominent member of the diplomatic corps, Obi-Wan’s with an attractive older woman artist.

At one point later in the evening, he found himself talking enthusiastically about music with a young woman about his own age who hadn’t really introduced herself. She was a good 25 centimeters shorter than Obi-Wan—something he didn’t notice until they’d been speaking for some time—with skin nearly as pale as his own and dark blue hair cut very short on one side and falling in a long, sensuous wave over one eye on the other. The visible ear was encrusted with rings and studs that flashed in the soft light. Her dress, cut in a similar fashion to her hair, leaving one shoulder bare and the other in a long, tight sleeve, was also blue and glittery and short and looked as though it had been air-brushed onto her lush figure. The bare shoulder was covered with a colorful tatoo of a leafy face surrounded by jagged interlacing lines. The boots she wore fit just as tightly as—and came up nearly to the hem of—the dress. In his travels, Obi-Wan had seen more elaborate formal wear, and certainly much stranger, but he didn’t think he’d met anyone who could actually pull off this particular combination and make it look sexy at the same time.

“Do you go to the clubs?” she said finally, when they’d exchanged the names of the bands and performers they liked best.

“I’m not often on Coruscant for any length of time,” Obi-Wan replied regretfully. She seemed as if she’d be fun to be with and he wondered, what, exactly, she was doing here. “Sometimes there’s only a day’s turn-around between missions before we’re off again.”

“No wonder we see so few of you at the university.”

That answered one question. “Yes, although every now and then we manage one or two classes in residence.”

“Well, next time you’re here for a while, call me and we’ll go clubbing,” she urged him, handing over a datachip with swirling blue spirals pulsing on it. “I know some great places. You do dance, don’t you?”

“What made you think I might not?”

“Something a mutual friend said describing you.”

“Who’s the mutual friend?” Obi-Wan asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Promised not to tell,” she said impishly. “Listen, there’s more party upstairs, with better music and more personalized entertainment. Are you interested?”

“Well, I’ve come with someone, actually.”

“I’ll bet you have,” she laughed, and Obi-Wan blushed at the now-obvious double entendre. “You stopped conversation dead when the two of you walked in. Are you fucking him or just dressing up together?”

“Pardon me?” Obi-Wan sputtered. He’d been asked some awkward questions in his life at receptions and parties, but this was one of the better ones, and he was a little embarrassed that he hadn’t fielded it well, but not as embarrassed as he was to be blushing about it.

Thankfully, Bruck reappeared at that moment, leaning over to kiss the young woman. “Hi, Suri. I see you two’ve met.”

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said, light dawning. “This is your friend who works here. That explains the question. Professional interest?”

“No,” she grinned cheerfully, “just nosiness. I was going to ask you how he was, since he won’t let me find out firsthand. And I know he likes girls, so don’t even try that.”

_Speaking of hands,_ Obi-Wan thought. One of Bruck’s had somehow slithered down the back of his pants, though he would have sworn they were too tight for that, fingers coming to rest just above the cleft, stroking lightly.

“He’s very good, actually,” Obi-Wan replied faintly, eyes glazing a little.

“So I see,” she smiled archly.

“Thank you,” Bruck grinned. “Did you tell Ben about the upstairs?”

“Not in detail. Why don’t we show him instead?” There was a mischievous gleam in her eye that made Obi-Wan nervous.

“Wait. I’ve got a question first,” he said, stalling. “Are all the people here members?”

“Most of them. The ones who aren’t are guests of members, except for you two, or employees, like me. Come on. You’ll like it. I reserved a room for you two.”

“And what is it you do here?”

“Ah, that’s two questions and you’re only allowed one. Besides, I think you’ll get the picture soon enough. Come on.”

_How bad could it be,_ he thought, following the young woman upstairs, trailed by Bruck, _if there’s a councillor here?_ Later, when it was over, he thought that he’d gone upstairs rather like a sacrifice to the altar—except that he’d gotten hard thinking about it.

Suri took them up two flights of stairs and down a short hallway to a corner room with tall, heavily draperied windows that looked like any other hotel room he had ever been in on any civilized world. Well, nearly any hotel, except for a few details that were slightly off: the pastel walls were all right; so was the tasteful, unremarkable, and unerotic art and the dark deep-pile carpeting. The low, comfortable but armless chairs were a little unusual, as was the presence of an armless rocker. The bed seemed overly large and the ornate, spindled metal head- and footboard somehow mildly suggestive, but that could have been his frame of mind. The elaborate fresher with a deep whirlpool bath and a large shower stall with a number of . . . interesting . . . attachments verged on decadent, and there were just a few too many strategically placed mirrors in both rooms. Non-threatening, he decided, but not quite ordinary. Still, it wasn’t what Obi-Wan had expected. This seemed far too bland, far too comfortable—pleasant, even. “How’s this?” she asked of Bruck.

“Looks fine. Ben?”

“Um, yes, fine,” he murmured absently, scanning the rooms as though looking for hidden assassins. Behind his back, Suri smiled, mouthing, _He’s sweet._ Bruck rolled his eyes.

“The toy box is at the foot of the bed. Any last minute questions, B-Boy?” the young woman asked cheerfully.

“Don’t think so. You covered it all pretty thoroughly. Thanks for everything, Suri.”

“Take your time. It’s yours for the night. Have fun, boyz.”

“If I have to die trying,” Bruck said a little grimly.

Obi-Wan finally seemed to come to when he heard the door shut and lock behind him. He turned to Bruck and folded his arms again. “Now what—B-boy? Is that what she called you? What’s she do here?”

“She’s a trixie. I met her in one of my classes. She’s working her way through school doing this. And she’s good at it.”

“How would you know?” Obi-Wan said suspiciously.

“Consumer reports,” he said shortly, grabbing a fistful of shirt and hauling Obi-Wan into his arms. “Now shut up.”

“What—”

“I said shut up. We came here for a reason. Let’s get on with it. I’m going to teach you what you need to know about enjoying pain.” His mouth came down hard on Obi-Wan’s, teeth grating, and he grabbed at Obi-Wan’s ass, squeezing, grinding their cocks together through the leather they both wore. Obi-Wan gave a muffled cry that Bruck swallowed and melted against him, his own hands sliding up inside Bruck’s shirt, but not for long. Before he knew it, Bruck had pushed him roughly down on the bed and straddled him, holding his arms over his head. Too fast, too fast . . . He was starting to hyperventilate.

“Do you trust me?” Bruck said.

There was no humor in his lover’s eyes now, as there had been earlier in the evening, nor any hint of exasperation. There was, instead, something almost tender there.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan whispered, shivering and gasping, unable to tell fear from arousal.

“Stay there. Don’t move.”

Bruck got off the bed and opened the chest at the end of it. Rather than watching, Obi-Wan wrapped his hands around the metal spindles of the headboard and closed his eyes, heart beating frantically in his chest. He wanted this, he knew he did, and yet he’d discovered he was afraid—not of Bruck, but of his own body’s responses and what they revealed, or what he thought they revealed about him. It made him feel more vulnerable, the way he had in the cell, and out of control. He didn’t understand what was happening with himself, why it felt so good, and it frightened him.

A few moments later, he felt his lover wrap something flexible and soft but very strong around first one wrist and then the other, leaving his arms stretched above his head but now secured to the headboard. He pulled on them experimentally, looking up. The cuffs were padded leather on either end of a longish chain threaded behind two of the spindles. He looked back into Bruck’s eyes.

The tenderness was still there, but layered beneath desire now. “They’ll hold, unless you open them with the Force,” the other boy said quietly. “That’s your safety. If it’s too much you can always get free. Do it now.”

The cuffs merely snapped shut and it was less than a few seconds’ work to open them. Bruck closed them again and said, “Remember that you can do this. If it’s too much, more than you want, just say ‘padawan’ and I’ll stop what I’m doing. Remember that we can stop this whenever you like. It’s not like the last time. Understand?” Obi-Wan nodded, eyes wide, breathing fast and shallow. “Good. Ready?” He nodded again, though he didn’t feel it.

Bruck leaned in for another punishing kiss, thrusting his tongue into Obi-Wan’s mouth, kissing him breathless. They broke several moments later and Bruck slid his hands up Obi-Wan’s chest, shirt rucking up beneath them until it was tucked into his lover’s armpits. Then he kissed and licked his way down to Obi-Wan’s navel and up again, tongue swirling around one nipple. Obi-Wan arched into the sensation, moaning softly—and then Bruck bit down, hard. The pain arced into Obi-Wan’s groin, making his cock twitch, pulling a loud gasp from him, followed by a low groan.

He heard something smack Bruck’s palm as he gestured behind him, calling an object to him with the Force. Something bit down over his nipple again, lightly at first, and then more sharply until he gasped and flinched. He felt Bruck’s mouth on his other nipple, tongue swirling over it, teasing, sucking, licking, the sensations from both gathering in his groin, making his cock surge against the tight leather, pulling a low keen of pleasure out of him. Then came the same sensation of teeth closing over it too and locking, more than a pinch, only a little less than a hard bite, with a slither of fine chain connecting them. It made his nipples throb wonderfully.

Bruck leaned back and flicked one of the clamps with a finger, and Obi-Wan cried out, bucking up under the other boy again. “Oh gods that’s good,” he gasped.

“Oh, I’ve just started with you,” Bruck grinned, yanking off Obi-Wan’s boots. Again, he leaned over for another kiss, nipping hard on his lover’s lips until they both tasted blood, then bit his chin, and nibbled and licked and sucked his neck. There would be bruises later, many of them. Hard hands ran down his sides, fingernails scraping, until they reached the waistband of his pants. A few deft movements had them unfastened and Bruck peeled them slowly down over Obi-Wan’s hips. It was work getting them off, they were so tight, and Obi-Wan lifted his hips to help. “You slut,” Bruck growled. “Left your underwear at home, I see.”

“Didn’t have much choice,” Obi-Wan gasped as his cock sprang free, aching to be touched. A moment later and the pants were off, tossed over a chair across the room. “Your turn,” Obi-Wan said. “Take them off.”

“When I’m ready,” Bruck said flatly, “and then I’ll fuck you blind,” turning to the chest again and pulling out several objects, closing the lid, and laying them out. Obi-Wan lifted his head to see but Bruck shoved him back down and took away the pillow beneath him, leaving his arms at an odd and uncomfortable angle. His shoulders began to burn.

Then Bruck knelt between Obi-Wan’s legs, spreading them, took his cock in hand and stroked downward over the hard length, leaving a wide, heavy, snugly fitting ring of cold metal at the base and snapping a tighter strap around the base of his scrotum. Almost immediately, both his cock and balls began to feel hot and swollen. Bruck gave the heavy sac a hard squeeze, leaving Obi-Wan writhing and crying out.

He was almost unbearably excited now, heart pounding in his chest, shoulders burning, cock aching, nipples throbbing. His hips moved involuntarily. He wanted something to thrust into, something to envelop him, something, anything to fuck. He moaned softly, wanting to touch himself, wanting Bruck to touch him, and after a moment he did, but only to tie a blindfold over his eyes, something that ratcheted up both the level of fear and the excitement. He understood then that this was not just about pain, but also about control, and letting go of it. He panicked for a moment, thinking he had forgotten the safe word, forgetting he could loosen the cuffs himself, and thrashed on the bed, pulling at the restraints, gasping.

Sensing his fear, Bruck shoved him roughly back into the mattress, held him there, and kissed him again, until he was faint and breathless and calmer, then ran one finger down his chest until it caught on the chain between his nipples, tugging a little. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered hoarsely. Obi-Wan arched up again, moaning as Bruck tugged the chain again, sending a sharp arc of pain through his nipples. Something else slithered across his belly, down across his cock, making him shiver.

“I know you’ll like this,” Bruck told him and he heard a swish in the background.

The first blow stunned him, falling across his belly in a wide swath, stinging sharply, landing with a loud slap, almost of flesh against flesh, but amplified. He yelped as the stinging spread across his torso and yelped again as another blow fell, a little harder, against his shoulder, just kissing his cheek. The next blow landed on his chest over one nipple. He cried out, bucking into it, wanting more. The next fell across his thighs, making his cock twitch with proximity, the next over the opposite side of his chest, the next lower across his belly, faster and faster, until every centimeter of his skin was stinging and burning, from collarbones to knees, and he was writhing and panting. The heat of the blows seeped through him, coiled in his belly, and fueled his arousal like nothing else. He swore he could feel air molecules brushing against his skin in tiny caresses. He’d never felt so alive.

Then the leather strips fell across his groin, seemed to curl over and around his cock and snap away again, kissing his tightly bound balls.

He nearly came, screaming and shuddering. Would have if not for the ring and straps at the base of his cock and sac. His balls were drawn up tight against his body, the edges of the strap cutting into them, when Bruck reached between his legs and squeezed again, and it hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

It felt wonderful.

“OhgodsBruckmore!” he yelled, pleaded, begged. “More!”

Bruck hit him again, again, again, each blow landing hard across his cock until he was bucking and breathing hard, whimpering, thrusting, writhing, pain radiating through him from the epicenter of his groin and falling back to the center, building and building and building like the scream in his throat—

Then it stopped, the pain lingering, his skin throbbing. Still fully clothed, Bruck climbed onto the bed and straddled him, leaning over to rub the hard bulge in his crotch against Obi-Wan’s face. The smell of leather and sweat and sex filled his head as he mouthed and nipped the line of Bruck’s erection. “You want this, don’t you?” Bruck growled, leaning back and opening the fastenings, letting his cock spring free. Before he could answer, Bruck found the pressure points in his jaw, forcing it open, and shoved his cock in. “Suck me,” he demanded in a voice husky with desire. Obi-Wan swallowed convulsively and Bruck held his head, stroking in, fucking his mouth. He found the rhythm, breathing through his nose, and sucked while Bruck moved his hips slowly, hands trembling in Obi-Wan’s hair.

It excited him to know his lover was this excited, hard and needy, and he moved to take more of him in, but Bruck held him back, stroked deeply down his throat once and withdrew. Obi-Wan could feel the tension in Bruck’s thighs as he held himself back from coming, hear the barely contained whine carefully swallowed, felt his own arousal spike.

Then Bruck slithered back over his body and flipped him over, deftly, yanking hard on his shoulders and arms, twisting his wrists together, kneeling behind him and spreading his legs, lifting his hips and shoving a pillow under them. He felt his cheeks spread and Bruck’s finger slip inside him, then something larger and rougher pressed against the puckered muscle, pressed until it gave, opening reluctantly. Whatever it was was dry and hard and rough. It hurt going in, scraping past the outside ring of muscle, then the inside one that clamped down involuntarily, and farther in, guided by Bruck’s finger. Soft strands of something whispered over the inside of his thighs as it pushed inward, until with a final shove, he felt a ring of leather come to rest against the outside of his anus and realized it was the grip of the flogger in him.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Bruck leered, voice still tight with need. “It’s like a tail. Too bad you can’t wag it. Maybe I can make you.” More strips of some other material caressed his ass and up over his back. He heard a swish and a crisp snap and the thud of the mass of thinner, stronger material hitting his buttocks, but it was a moment before the pain—far more intense than before—blossomed in his ass and spread up inside to make his guts clench. Obi-Wan yelled as his insides pulsed around the handle and he felt it move with his contracting muscles. Bruck chuckled and ran his hands over Obi-Wan’s ass, pinching and slapping, then between his legs to squeeze his balls again. Obi-Wan cried out and thrashed until Bruck held him down. “Wish you could see this, love. It’s really erotic, that thick, black handle up your ass, moving when I hit you, when you flinch, the skin red and hot around it. You’ve got such a nice ass. Do you want to see? I could fix the mirrors—”

“No! Don’t . . . Bruck . . .” Obi-Wan moaned, wriggling desperately. “Oh gods Bruck . . . ” “What, love?” Bruck said gently. “Don’t stop!” Obi-Wan gasped. “Don’t stop, please!”

Every bit of skin on the front of his body, from his collarbones to his knees, was still on fire. It was almost worse now that his lover had stopped flogging him and he had nothing else to distract him. He could feel each individual welt and stripe as though he had gotten into a patch of stinging jaggers and scored himself with them. At the same time, the skin around them felt hot and tender. And his cock was throbbing like his nipples, pulsing with his heart.

Bruck stepped back a little and Obi-Wan heard the swish and thwap as the strips connected with his ass again. The blow was harder this time and did more than sting. This was truly painful. Another blow like it might break the skin. Then there was another, just as hard, and another, and another. He jerked away, crying out, feeling his cock twitch and pulse each time he was struck. Gods it hurt good!

This wasn’t like the pain he’d experienced at the agent’s hands, but it was similar enough that he finally understood what had gone on in that cell, why it had aroused him, why something similar aroused him now. Somehow his body had transformed this sensation into one far more endurable, instead of, say, sending him into shock, or completely out of himself as it had those few times when it was so unbearable that it overloaded his already extensive capacity for it. It wasn’t so much that he liked pain as that his body turned it into something he could not just contend with, but enjoy.

“So good so good so good so good,” he crooned, because it was, because his body made it so.

Bruck hit him again, higher, on his lower back, the lashes curling around this hip and waist to meet the welts in front. He flinched and cried out again, hadn’t yet drawn a new breath when the next blow cut it short, laid across this shoulder. Too close. “Not there!” he gasped. “The scarring--”

“Trust me.”

And Obi-Wan did, surrendering will and fear and revulsion to the gift of love and pure sensation.

Bruck covered him again, shoulders to ankles, with welts. Each time, he jerked away from it, cried out, moaned, whimpered, writhed, ground his cock against the pillow. He could feel his orgasm building, building, blossoming upward from his groin, through his spine, into his skull, his ass clenching around the handle the way it had around the metal cylinder the agent had shoved into him. Every nerve ending was screaming. He felt as though all his hair were snapping with electricity, as though his scalp were peeling away, the top of his head lifting off like an egg.

“Bruck—” he groaned, guttural, unrecognizable even to himself. “On the ass. Harder. Harder!”

Bruck knelt behind him and pulled him onto his knees, then leaned back and lashed his ass hard. Pain erupted and flowed through him, down his legs, up his spine, through his pelvis, concentrating in his cock. His hips jerked and thrust blindly. Bruck hit him again and he cried out, then the other boy reached under him and squeezed and kneaded his balls, slipping the ring off his cock and opening the strap around his scrotum. The flogger licked his skin a third time and he could barely contain himself. He was keening now, his ass burning, stinging as he flailed, head thrown back, shoulders on fire. Bruck pulled the stock out of him, lashed him a fourth time and slid his cock into the stretched and aching passage and began to fuck him savagely. He reached beneath Obi-Wan, stroking him hard and fast, driving his own cock into him in the same rhythm. In a moment, it was over for both of them. Thrashing and screaming, Obi-Wan came everywhere, explosively, and collapsed back onto the mattress, shivering and whimpering as Bruck held his hips and emptied himself with an equally tortured cry.

They lay paralyzed together for a few moments, and Obi-Wan hardly noticed when the blindfold disappeared or when the cuffs were unsnapped and Bruck moved his numb and tingling arms down by his sides, or even when the clamps were loosened and removed. Bruck peeled the shirt the rest of the way off him and cuddled up beside him again, but it took a moment to realize his lover had taken his clothes off too and that they were lying skin to skin, the other boy’s cool and soothing against his fevered and welted hide.

“Shhh, love, shhh.” Bruck murmured comforting nonsense at him, running impossibly gentle hands over him. “Hush. Love you. Love you so much,” he whispered, petting and nuzzling and kissing his face and neck, running his hands so lightly over Obi-Wan’s skin that they were barely touching. “Was it good? Was it what you wanted?” he murmured.

Bruck’s hands felt painfully good in a way quite different from the lashing. He nuzzled into his lover’s neck, smelling sweat, feeling lethargic and a little confused, but also deeply satisfied. “Apparently,” he said sleepily. “Apparently it was wonderful. It wasn’t like . . .”

“No, you don’t really like the humiliation part of it, do you?” Bruck yawned.

“No. Just the—just the feeling. Just the pain.”

“You just like it a little rough,” Bruck shrugged, kissing his forehead. “I always thought you did. You’ve always liked that great ass of yours paddled, boy.”

Obi-Wan looked stunned for a moment. “Yeah. I just, I just never equated that with pain somehow.”

“‘Your focus determines your reality,’” Bruck repeated, laughing a little. “What did you think it was?”

“I don’t know. Just a little kink?” he replied sheepishly.

“You idiot,” Bruck said fondly. “Is your lip okay? I bit a little harder than I intended to.” He ran a finger tenderly inside Obi-Wan’s lower lip, the tingle of Force-healing following.

“Don’t worry about it,” Obi-Wan said when he was done. “Did you mind very much?”

“Not like the last time,” Bruck said softly, clearly a little troubled himself, “because you wanted it, and you trusted me. And you were so beautiful, love.” He paused a moment, stroking one hand down Obi-Wan’s welted hip. “I liked watching you and hearing you enjoying yourself. And it wasn’t exactly the worst orgasm I’ve ever had. Would I do it again? Is that what you’re asking?”

“I don’t know,” Obi-Wan said uncertainly.

“I would, if you wanted it. Gods, Ben, I’d do almost anything for you.”

“Don’t say that, please. It’s not right that I have that kind of influence on you.”

Bruck stroked one of his eyebrows with a thumb, cupping his cheek, trying to make the sudden frown go away. “I would, love. Why not? Don’t you feel the same about Qui-Gon? Doesn’t he feel the same about you?” _Don’t you feel the same about me?_ the unspoken question.

“It’s different, somehow. I’m his padawan, he’s my master.”

“And your lover. Not so different. You know I love you that much.”

Obi-Wan rested his forehead against Bruck’s and sighed softly. “I know. If I didn’t know it before, I do now. Love you too,” he said, capturing Bruck’s lips, kissing him with the same tenderness Bruck had given him.

“Come on, Ben,” Bruck said, smiling, pulling him upright a couple of minutes later. “It’s not going to feel so good soon if I don’t rub you down.”

A little while later Obi-Wan was lying against him in the deep bath while Bruck trickled the soft, oily water over his shoulders, rubbing it in gently. The water was comfortably warm but not hot and it had stung a little everywhere when he’d first gotten in. Now, it had eased the burn on his skin and loosened his muscles and he was nearly asleep against Bruck’s shoulder.

“Don’t know whether it’s better during or after,” Obi-Wan murmured, kissing up along Bruck’s jaw. Their mouths met and Obi-Wan shifted a little in the water so they could kiss for a while.

“Like banging your head against the wall?” Bruck asked when they moved apart again.

“Hmmm?”

“Because it feels so good when you stop?”

Obi-Wan splashed him. “Very funny.”

“How’s it feel?”

“A little sore. Nothing tragic.”

“So what’s bothering you?” When Obi-Wan said nothing, Bruck squeezed him. “It still feels wrong, doesn’t it?”

“Not like it did.”

“You’re still worried about Qui-Gon.” Obi-Wan nodded. “You’re never going to know how he really feels unless you talk to him.” Bruck prodded his shoulder. “Get up off your ass and do it now. Go on.”

“Bruck—”

“No whining. Up.”

And so he found himself at home much earlier than he’d expected, and confronted with Qui-Gon’s closed door. Outside their quarters, Bruck had patted his ass, making him wince, then kissed him goodnight, leaving him to face his master alone. His hair was still a little damp and his ass sore enough that he had found it uncomfortable to sit on the transport on the way home. What he’d been doing was all too evident beneath his clothes. Qui-Gon could not fail to notice that his apprentice was walking a little stiffly—something that would not improve overnight without a concentrated healing—and that there were obvious welts on his upper arms and a string of love-bites along his neck, disappearing under his somewhat rumpled shirt. Obi-Wan suddenly wanted to hide all the evidence of his evening’s activities and just retreat into his room, but he knew that was impossible. Bruck would never let him get away with it, and would expect a full report tomorrow.

He closed his eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath and centered himself, searching his feelings, discovering he felt strangely at peace. Before second thoughts could stop him, he slipped inside and knelt beside the bed.

 

* * *

 

I am surprised at how early he returns. I had expected to see him next at breakfast, but he comes home within a few hours of midwatch. Again, I have been lying awake in the dark, missing his warm presence in my bed, this time wondering what he and Bruck are doing, for I am certain the two of them are out together. There is no one else Obi-Wan would wear those clothes for, except perhaps if I asked him. I wish that were not entirely the case, and it is one of the reasons I’ve encouraged Obi-Wan’s relations with Bruck. As Mace and I were good for each other, so are they. And it is good for me to remember that Obi-Wan does not belong to me.

I find myself holding my breath as I hear him come in, wondering if he will come to me or if things will remain awkward and cool between us as he finds his way out of the mass of conflicting feelings entangling him. Our bond feels more open than it has since the night we went to dinner in a small restaurant not far from the Temple. It seems like years ago now, instead of less than ten days. I hear footsteps, soft and hesitant, then the door slides open and a lithe shadow slips inside. I hear the creak of leather as he kneels by the bed. I am sure he knows I am not asleep, but I wait for him to break the silence.

“Qui-Gon?” he says quietly. It is a good sign, I hope, that he calls out my name, not my title.

 

* * *

 

Late one night in their bed, sweaty and redolent of sex, as far from bitterness and loneliness as his master could get, Qui-Gon playing with his braid and wondering idly and with some amusement what he would have done if that “interfering little green troll” had not brought them together:

“You would have done what you always have, Master. Endured. Changed. Grew. Whatever does not kill us, makes us stronger.”

 

* * *

 

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon answered, propping himself up and reaching for the light. The younger man caught his hand, held it for a moment then put it down again.

“No. Please. Leave it off.”

“As you wish. Is something wrong?”

“No . . . I just, I wondered if I were still welcome in your bed.”

“Only if you’ve removed your boots.”

He heard the amusement in Qui-Gon’s voice with some relief. “You know I always take them off in the common room.”

“Well then.” Qui-Gon held the covers up for him and Obi-Wan climbed in beside his master for the first time in far too many days, feeling himself quickly wrapped in the warmth of bedclothes and strong arms. Qui-Gon, as usual, wore nothing and it felt a little strange if somehow safer to be lying next to him almost fully clothed. “You must know, Obi-Wan,” the older man told him while tucking him beneath his chin, “that this is your bed as much as mine now. And that you are as free to come and go from it as you are from our rooms. We’ve spoken about this before. Did you enjoy yourself this evening?”

Obi-Wan slid his arms around the strong, broad back, rubbing his cheek against the center of Qui-Gon’s chest, heard his master’s heart beating calmly and thought, not for the first time, what a comforting sound it was. “In a manner of speaking,” he admitted. “I think it was more of a lesson than the treat it probably would have been to someone else. I’m afraid I was a little prudish about it.”

“Was it at least a successful lesson then?”

“I believe so.”

“And what did you learn, my love?” Qui-Gon asked gently.

“Something about myself. Something you tried to show me in that cell. Something I didn’t want to see.”

“A hard lesson then.”

“It would have been harder without Bruck. Did you put him up to it?”

“No. He took it all upon himself. I merely gave permission.”

“I see. Like sending me to the Combat Master to work on my punches.” He couldn’t keep the residual tinge of resentful bitterness out of his voice yet.

Qui-Gon judiciously ignored it, recognizing it for what it was. “Yes, love. Although it’s more like sending you to Master Yoda to learn about your precognition. It’s something I have no skill in, something I could not teach you.”

“Does it—” Obi-Wan hesitated, then pushed himself away from Qui-Gon and sat up. His master followed, letting the covers pool at their waists in the darkness. “I want to know if it disgusts you, as well, but perhaps I’d better show you the results of the lesson before you answer,” he said a little grimly, rising from their bed and turning on the light.

He pulled the shirt off over his head in what would have been a smooth and graceful movement if his shoulders hadn’t been so obviously sore, dropping it on the floor, then unfastened the leather pants and pushed them down and off, hissing as they rubbed against the welts. He hadn’t bothered healing any of them, but the bath had eased some of the swelling. A few had broken the skin slightly and started to seep a little now as the scabs stuck to leather and fabric and were pulled away. The rest stood out in stark and angry hashmarks against his pale skin. He held his arms out from his sides and turned around slowly in a full circle so his lover and master would see everything—or at least everything that was visible.

Qui-Gon’s face was impassive when he looked again, though there may have been a flicker of sorrow in his eyes that quickly disappeared. “Does it?” Obi-Wan prompted.

“Disgust me? No. No more than any other preference for pleasure would. We’ve both been raised in the Temple, Obi-Wan, traveled widely, met people of every sort. Why should it? Because it’s your preference and not mine?”

“Because I know how much you hate to see anything hurt.”

Qui-Gon shook his head. “Abused or deliberately injured against their will. It’s not the same, Padawan. I don’t need to tell you that it hurt me a great deal to watch you being tortured. I was glad when you could find some relief in the pleasure your body manufactures from the stimulus. It was the one aspect that made watching you in such agony, ordering that pain to be inflicted on you, bearable for me. And when you learn to use that ability, it will make you formidable even as a prisoner.” Qui-Gon reached for him. “Come here, love. Come back to bed with me. I’ve missed you.”

Obi-Wan hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. He let it out now in a relieved gust, feeling his heart slowing and the fear flow out of him like water. He crept back into the big bed and into Qui-Gon’s arms, felt the brush of beard against his cheek and chin as the older man sought his mouth. Their lips met tenderly, Qui-Gon brushing his lightly with his tongue, seeking entrance and, when given it, sweeping inside not as an invader but as though he were home. Big hands glided over his skin, barely touching him, as Bruck had done afterwards, warm and gentle.

“Does that hurt?” Qui-Gon said softly.

“No, feels good,” he murmured, closing his eyes and surrendering to his master’s touch.

Qui-Gon pushed the covers down to the foot of the bed and sat beside him. He took Obi-Wan’s hand between his own and his apprentice could feel him opening himself to the Living Force, gathering it to him, knew what he intended.

“You don’t have to do this, Qui. I can heal myself.”

“Would you rather I didn’t?” His master asked, turning serene blue eyes on him. They seemed especially vivid suddenly, as though backlit by an internal light. Qui-Gon’s weathered and scarred skin seemed to glow subtly as well. Sitting cross-legged on their sheets he looked like a manifestation of the Living Force itself, so peaceful, so warm, so beautiful and so much of the Light that it took Obi-Wan’s breath away for a moment.

“No,” he said finally, “I just thought I’d do it as I slept.”

“Then let me do this for you, My Padawan,” Qui-Gon requested.

Obi-Wan realized then that it was more than a favor Qui-Gon was offering him. It was also an act of apology, a way of easing not just his physical hurts, but the other injuries he had been forced to inflict.

“Thank you, My Master,” he said.

“Roll over then, love,” he said, “and let me take care of the ones on your back first.” One by one, Qui-Gon traced the welts with a finger, warmth and healing energy flowing from him, soothing the inflammation, closing any shallow cuts, taking the heat from his skin. It took a long time and Obi-Wan was nearly asleep when Qui-Gon gently rolled him onto his back again to repeat the process. He was asleep, this time, when he felt a warm mouth close over his nipple, the same healing energy and a gentle tongue soothing first one pinched nub and then the other. Obi-Wan made a low and sleepy noise of pleasure in his throat and stretched, bringing his hands to rest in the tousled mass of Qui-Gon’s hair, lifting it away from his face.

“That’s wonderful,” he murmured as Qui-Gon gently licked and suckled the rosy flesh. “Thank you.”

“I’m not finished yet, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said with some amusement.

Obi-Wan moved his hands down his torso, feeling only smooth, cool skin under his palms, then propped himself up and looked down. “Dessert?” he inquired with a grin, seeing what was left.

“Something like that,” Qui-Gon smiled and leaned up to kiss him.

“Then let me share it with you,” he said.

“If you’d like.”

“I would.”

He rolled a little onto his side and drew his lower leg up, spreading the other wide. Qui-Gon did the same and they rested their heads on each other’s inner thighs. Obi-Wan nuzzled in against his master’s half-hard cock, feeling the surge of blood hardening it as he did so, while Qui-Gon drew a gentle finger over the welts on Obi-Wan’s with the same result. When Qui-Gon’s fingers moved to Obi-Wan’s scrotum, he followed suit, licking and sucking his lover’s testicles in their heavy sac. The spike in arousal through their bond was gratifying, but equally so was the love flowing through it, even as a hot tongue licked over the last of the welts inside his thigh and over his cock once again.

“Better?” Qui-Gon inquired.

“Yes, thank y—aah!” He stopped in midsentence as his lover closed a large hand around Obi-Wan’s cock and swirled his tongue over the crown. Not to be outdone, Obi-Wan reciprocated, drawing a deep sigh from Qui-Gon.

They settled into a pattern of mirroring each other then, Qui-Gon leading them in a very gentle and intense mutual pleasuring that was also, in its own way, a lesson. It took a great deal of concentration and control not to be driven over the edge by Qui-Gon’s talented tongue and mouth and hands, more so to attend to his own work of reciprocating the pleasure, and to enjoy his own at the same time. His master made sure to build the heat slowly, feeding it the way he would a fire started from tinder, adding a small bit of fuel at a time, breathing life into it, reading the tension in his padawan’s body the way he would read the smoke and lick of flames on dry grass and dead leaves, creating something quick and lively. He was so ready when Qui-Gon took him into his throat and swallowed around him that he came almost at once, forgetting everything but the fire of ecstasy that roared through him in that moment, crying out as he had with Bruck.

Qui-Gon was chuckling when he came back to himself shortly thereafter.

“All right, you win,” Obi-Wan conceded, laughing, and started to return the favor.

Qui-Gon pulled away, holding his head still. “It wasn’t a contest, love. It was just the look of surprise on your face that I found amusing, as though you hadn’t expected to come. Roll over,” he said, tugging Obi-Wan’s hip. “There’s one more spot to take care of.”

He followed the promptings of Qui-Gon’s hands and turned his back, drawing up both knees now. Bruck had washed him gently in their bath afterward, soothing the burn left by the rough penetration somewhat, but he still found it uncomfortable to sit and knew it would be without a healing of some kind. Qui-Gon’s hands spread him gently and he felt the brush and tickle of beard and the lap of tongue over the puckered muscle, soothing, the way it had been on his nipples. He squirmed a little and sighed, felt Qui-Gon nuzzling him, tongue pushing into him a little. That drew a hiss from him, even that small penetration, and his master did not do it again, but continued to lick at him gently, like some large animal washing a cub. It felt wonderful.

After a few minutes, Qui-Gon sat up and reached into the drawer in the bedside table, coming up with a bottle of oil.

“Qui, I don’t think I can—”

“Shh. Trust me, Padawan,” Qui-Gon admonished softly, and kissed his temple. “I won’t hurt you.”

_Trust me._ Bruck had said it too, with the opposite intention. The odd thing was, he did trust them both to do the right thing at the right time.

A moment later, there was a slick finger coating his opening, the oil warm with the heat of Qui-Gon’s hands and at the same time cooling of its own properties. Very, very gently, his master pressed one finger inside, not so much stretching as encouraging the muscles with a tendril of the Force and the movements of his hand. As he’d promised, there was no pain, only the balm of a healing as he stroked inside. Obi-Wan sighed as the abraded tissue was made whole again and felt the fire rekindling in his groin as Qui-Gon very carefully brushed against his prostate.

“Oh Qui . . .” he moaned softly, pressing back against him. “More.”

Slowly, Qui-Gon eased another slick finger into him, taking his time, touching and petting his back and flanks until Obi-Wan was nearly hypnotized with pleasure. The two fingers worked inside him tenderly, sending little tremors of pleasure through him as his prostate was nudged and stroked. A little later, the third blunt digit slipped into him just as easily, loosening him further.

By the time Qui-Gon’s cock pushed against his opening, any soreness was gone and he was hard again. The thick oil-slickened length slipped into him easily, and he took Qui-Gon in as though he belonged there. The oil Qui-Gon had used made it feel almost as though he were packed with snow, but it was pleasantly cool, not achingly cold. For a moment they lay still together, side by side, Qui-Gon deep inside Obi-Wan and cradling his body close, pillowing his head on one arm, the other hand caressing his hip and thigh, wandering gently over his belly and cock. Then they began to move together, so slowly and in such tiny increments that they were almost not moving at all. Qui-Gon stroked his cock the same way. Yet each movement made pleasure blossom in him the way the pain had—not so quickly, perhaps, but just as intensely.

“Oh Qui,” he whispered, turning his head for a kiss. “Love you so much.”

Qui-Gon leaned over him, found his lips, parted them just as gently and slipped his tongue inside, exploring, tasting, teasing. They traded the kiss back and forth for a long time, bodies moving in a sinuous dance, one that became gradually more urgent until they were rocking in earnest, Qui-Gon moving in and out of him, fist working his cock. There was no pain, only the deep joy of having his lover inside him, around him, holding him, filling him, loving him, wanting him. Climax was a bright light in his skull, blindingly wonderful, throwing him back against Qui-Gon as he came with just as much force if less volume as with Bruck. Qui-Gon held his hips then and shuddered to completion with a guttural moan of his own, gently nipping Obi-Wan’s shoulder as he did.

They pulled away from one another reluctantly, Obi-Wan immediately turning to face his lover and burrowing into his arms. “Oh gods that was good, Qui,” Obi-Wan murmured. “Yes it was, love.” Qui-Gon kissed the top of his head, turned out the light, and pulled the covers up around them both, and held him closely. Obi-Wan’s master drifted into sleep almost immediately, kind, blunt fingers touching his lover’s cheek, but Obi-Wan found sleep elusive, as tired as he was.

There was too much to digest, not just about this rather busy and astonishing night, but about the last several days, things he had not been able to bear thinking about until now. He was only now beginning to grasp what this “preference,” as Qui-Gon called it, might mean in terms of his abilities as Jedi. Repeatedly, he’d been told he’d held out much longer than usual, and how extraordinary it was that he’d still had the presence of mind to kill his tormentor. “There is no doubt in my mind you would have escaped, if your master had let the exercise proceed, Obi-Wan,” Master Windu had told him. “And that would have been a first.”

All because “he liked it a little rough,” as Bruck would say.

And Bruck—by the Hundred Little Gods! When did Bruck get so much older? Theoretically, Obi-Wan’s travel experience was wider than Bruck’s from working with a master so much in demand as a negotiator and ambassador, but he realized now that he’d been running in rather rarified circles. Even the friends he had made in his infrequent appearances at the university were quite different from Bruck’s, apparently. He’d never met anyone who was working their way through school as a dominatrix. Though he was polished, a master of etiquette and polite conversation and a promising diplomat, he knew nothing. Qui-Gon had taught him what he could, circumstances allowing, but he had his own reputation to maintain, and—this was something that came as a complete surprise because he never thought of Qui-Gon as old—had already sown his own wild oats, from the stories he had heard around the Temple, and, come to think of it, from the cast of characters Qui-Gon counted as friends. He wondered who else Bruck knew from his own experiences, who else he could get himself introduced to.

Bruck was right. He needed to get out more. Even if it meant acting his age.

He settled more firmly into Qui-Gon’s arms, marveling again at how generous and wise a lover and master and friend he had. Two wise and generous lovers. He wasn’t sure now which one had made the greater sacrifices for him, Qui-Gon watching him in pain, pushing him to grow and know himself no matter what it cost him, or Bruck willingly doing what he knew could very well ruin their relationship so Obi-Wan could succeed. _I don’t deserve either of them._

Somehow, he would have to learn to, in the future.


End file.
